


The White Wolf and the Dragon Queen

by Archer94



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Too many to tag them all, other supporting characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2018-09-07 03:19:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 43
Words: 298,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8781073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archer94/pseuds/Archer94
Summary: Here is a post- S6 fic about what happens in the world, with alliances and character deaths all around. The POV characters will be Jon, Dany, Sansa, Bran, Arya, Tyrion, Jaime and Samwell. It will be mainly show canon but with a little from the books and the Telltale series thrown in.





	1. Jon I

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys. This is my first fic so I hope you all enjoy it. Reviews and comments are appreciated.  
> I do not own any of these characters. They are the creation of George RR Martin

Jon

“The King in the North!”

“The King in the North!”

“The King in the North!”

Jon stood numbly staring out at the assembled Northern lords, who were all on their feet, shouting at the top of their lungs proclaiming him their king. _Him_. Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, was being made King in the North.

It reminded him of the fantasies he had when he was a boy, where his father would legitimise him and he would become the Lord of Winterfell. He grew to be ashamed of those dreams but here they were now, when he had long since given them up, becoming true.

Jon looked to his left and saw Sansa looking at him. She smiled at him encouragingly and gave him a small nod. Jon felt a rush of guilt and sympathy for his sister.

She had won the Battle of the Bastards, as people had taken to calling it, just as much as he had. Even more so, thought Jon. If she hadn’t shown up with the Knights of the Vale, then Jon knew for sure that he would be dead. And here the lords of the North were proclaiming him as their King without even mentioning her involvement. Jon felt that she deserved better than that.

Jon shook himself out of his reverie and realised that the lords were still chanting for him. He raised his hands as a sign of both acceptance and that he wished to speak. The chanting took a good minute to die down fully. Jon cast his eyes across the crowd and saw that, while Davos had joined in the chanting, Tormund had remained firmly in his seat. Jon chuckled lightly to himself before addressing the hall.

“My lords and Lady”, began Jon, with a nod to the small but imposing figure of Lady Lyanna Mormont. “I thank you for the faith and trust that you have placed in me to become your king. I pray that I will be worthy of such an honour and become as worthy of your loyalty as my brother and father were before me.”

There was an outbreak of cheering and banging of goblets on tables in agreement at his words and Jon waited for it to pass.

“My first act as King, is to name my sister, Lady Sansa Stark, as the Lady of Winterfell”.

Jon turned to see Sansa looking at him, equally confused and grateful. He smiled back at her and continued.

“As the King in the North, I will have a lot of responsibilities,” Jon explained, turning to the hall once more. “If I am to rule over the North, I would like to have people I trust to help me shoulder the responsibilities. As the eldest of my father’s remaining trueborn children, I think that it is only fair that Sansa be named the lady of this castle in reward for the role she played in the Bolton’s defeat”.

There was another round of murmured consent and banging of goblets. Jon could see Sansa looking at him out of the corner of his eye and felt her squeezing his hand in gratitude but Jon didn’t respond.

He had locked eyes with Littlefinger and was pleased to see that he looked enraged. Jon realised, with a twinge of satisfaction, that this must put a large hole in whatever plans he was working on. After what Sansa had told him about Littlefinger, Jon didn’t trust a thing about him and knew that somewhere down the road he would have to be dealt with.

Jon looked towards the lords of the Vale, whom he supposed would be loyal to Baelish. However, he saw Lord Yohn Royce looking over at the man with poorly disguised contempt. Jon briefly looked between the two, wondering what had caused such enmity. He pushed it to back of his mind to deal with later. Lord Royce could prove a valuable ally against Littlefinger.

“Tormund Giantsbane”, called Jon above the ruckus, as he took his seat once more. “Approach please”.

The hall quietened immediately. Jon knew his decision to aid the Free Folk was not popular among the Northerners, who had been fighting them all their lives, but the Free Folk had fought beside him and deserved recognition for such bravery.

Jon saw the tall form of his friend rise from his seat at the table full of the leaders of the Free Folk and make his way towards him. Jon could tell by the way his beard was twitching that he was amused by the proceedings.

“Your Grace”, said Tormund sarcastically, with a large grin. “I hope you aren’t expecting me to bow down to you now, Jon Snow. You may be my good friend but that doesn’t mean you are my king.”

There was a round of murmured outrage at Tormund’s words which only abated when Jon started to laugh.

“I expect no such things my friend,” said Jon. “I know that is not your way and I have no intention of forcing you to do anything. I merely wish to reward the Free Folk for their bravery on the field and for coming to the aid of House Stark when we needed it the most.”

Jon saw several lords squirm uncomfortably in their seats at this. He knew that many of them were feeling guilty that they had refused the Stark’s call to fight for Winterfell. Jon didn’t hold it against them, as he understood their need to protect what was theirs. He was not, however, going to ignore the Free Folk’s loyalty in the face of their discomfort.

“In reward for your loyalty Tormund, I grant the settlement of Queenscrown to the Free Folk. It lies in the Gift, just south-west of Mole’s Town. The keep is largely intact but the surrounding village will need some repair. However, there is a large amount of land there for you to expand as needed for your numbers. I thought you would all like to remain as North as possible.”

Tormund stood for a moment staring at Jon in shock, as if he had just proposed a pact of marriage with the Night King. Just when Jon was starting to feel uncomfortable at the silence, Tormund bowed his head slightly.

“On behalf of the Free Folk, I thank you Jon Snow,” he said, looking at Jon with an expression of utmost respect on his face. “We are not used to this from you Southerners but this will go a long way to showing the other leaders of our people that things are beginning to change with you around.” He dipped his head slightly again and headed back to his seat.

“And now, for the next matter”, said Jon, addressing the hall once more. “Lords Manderly, Glover, Cerwyn and Tallhart, please approach.”

The four lords all go to their feet and made their way to Jon, before bowing down on one knee before him.

“You four represent some of the largest houses in the North,” began Jon, waving his hand giving them permission to rise, “I know your families were all loyal to my brother Robb, the Young Wolf, when he called the banners during the War of the Five Kings. I know you all took losses on behalf of my family and for this I thank you.”

Jon raised his cup toward the four Lords and took a drink, partly in toast of their actions and partly to steel his nerves for what he must ask of them next, as he suspected it would not be well received. Many other lords around the room followed in his example and he saw Lord Manderly’s chest swell with pride at such praise.

“As you know, the war is far from over and I wish to know how many men I could count on from each of you.”

“Your Grace,” boomed Lord Manderly, as he bent his knee once more. “We did take casualties in the War of Five Kings, ‘tis true. However, I still have fifteen thousand men that are yours to command.”

“I have ten thousand men, Your Grace,” said Robett Glover. “I have a lot to repay to House Stark. My men are yours whenever you need them.”

“Your Grace,” said Brandon Tallhart, as he took the knee. He was the son of the former Lord’s brother and had been thrust into leadership after his house had been decimated by the Ironborn. “My house suffered heavy losses at the hands of the traitor Theon Greyjoy and his Ironborn scum, but I still have five hundred men that I would be glad to give you.”

Jon looked at the young man, who was barely older than Bran, and felt a rush of sympathy for him. Jon could tell by the way he was standing, proudly alongside his Northern brethren but at the same time cowering slightly, that his time captured by the Ironborn had affected him greatly.

“I thank you, my lord,” said Jon as steadily as he could, while anger and hatred for Theon rose in his throat like bile. “And rest easy, for I will make sure that the Ironborn pay for what happened to you and your family. The North Remembers.”

Jon heard the room repeat his words and saw Lord Tallhart bow his head and mutter his thanks. Not wishing to keep the poor boy in the eyes of everyone for too long, Jon turned to Cley Cerwyn.

“And you Lord Cerwyn? How many men do you have available?”

“Near a thousand, Your Grace,” the young lord replied.

“I see,” said Jon, clasping his hands together on the table in front of him. “My lords, I will need a thousand men each from Houses Manderly and Glover, fifty from Tallhart and a hundred from Cerwyn. These men will ride North to help the Lord Commander Eddison Tollett and the Night’s Watch repair and man the remaining sixteen castles that have fallen into disrepair.

“They will not however”, said Jon, raising his voice and a hand to Cerwyn, who looked as if he was getting ready to argue, “have to take the black. They are there merely to guard against the Walkers. Once the Long Night is over, they will be able to return home.”

There was an outbreak of muttering at these words. Jon knew that very few people in the room believed his story about the Night King and the dead rising. Jon didn’t much care, he knew they would see the truth with their own eyes before long, but he hoped that people’s misgivings wouldn’t hamper their efforts to prepare for the war to come.

He needn’t have worried however as Manderly, Glover and Tallhart announced that their forces would ride north immediately. Cerwyn followed suit a second later, albeit grudgingly, as Jon could tell.

As the other three lords bowed and made their way back to their seats, Cerwyn remained where he was, with a determined look upon his face.

“Your Grace, if I may ask a question?”, asked Cerwyn, in a tone that Jon realised meant that whatever he was going to say next wasn’t in fact a question.

“Go ahead, Lord Cerwyn”, said Jon graciously, while inwardly praying to the Old Gods that this wouldn’t be his first time as King in the North that a vassal house would become unruly.

“What is to become of the remnants of Houses Bolton, Karstark and Umber?” Cerwyn asked, with an unusual gleam to his eye, which Jon quickly recognised as greed. “And what is to become of their strongholds?”

There was a murmur of assent at this and Jon could tell that many of them had wished to know this too, but were waiting for somebody to ask. Jon stood up from his chair and addressed Cerwyn, but made sure that his tone made it clear that he was addressing the room at large.

“House Bolton is in tatters. Their remaining men have scattered to the winds. They will be hunted down and dealt with as appropriate”, said Jon, glancing at Sansa out of the corner of his eye. She was staring resolutely forward but he knew that even the name Bolton caused her pain. “The Dreadfort will remain empty and will be allowed to crumble into dust. It will serve as a reminder to anyone who sees it what happens to traitors.”

Jon hadn’t meant for his words to sound so aggressive, but his anger at Roose’s betrayal of Robb and Ramsay’s treatment of Sansa had boiled to the surface and had found its way into his voice. He looked at the faces of the lords, who all looked shocked and nervous. Jon took a deep breath to calm himself.

“I believe that House Bolton will be the last Northern house to betray House Stark, and I trust the loyalty of all in this room,” Jon said reassuringly, trying desperately to not make his vassals believe that he distrusted them, not even a day into him being their King. Luckily, Jon saw that the majority of them visibly relaxed at his words, so he continued.

“Houses Umber and Karstark still have younger members, if I remember rightly,” said Jon, turning to Sansa, who nodded in confirmation.

“They are mainly younger cousins, brother,” said Sansa, looking at Jon. “Children who several years away from being men.”

“I agree,” said Jon. “These remaining members will not be punished and will retain control of Karhold and Last Hearth.”

“You cannot be serious?”, demanded Cerwyn furiously. “These families sided with your family’s enemy and actively fought against you!”

“They are children!”, roared Jon as he rose to feet, his temper rising with him for reasons that he couldn’t rightly explain. “They did not raise swords against us and I refuse to punish them for the actions of their elder relatives!”

A hush fell over the hall and Jon could see that many of them were as shocked by his outburst as he was and, out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Littlefinger had a smug look on his face.

 _He will twist this in his favour against me_ , Jon thought bitterly. _I am sure of it._

This was something that he had noticed since the red priestess Melisandre had brought him back from the dead. His temper had either gotten worse or he had become less able to control it. Neither of which was a comforting thought, Jon pondered glumly.

“Are you all right?”, asked Sansa comfortingly, as she grasped his forearm. He looked at her and he could see that she was genuinely concerned for him.

“I am fine”, Jon muttered abruptly before he returned his attention to Cerwyn. “I apologise for my outburst my lord. This is something that I feel strongly about. The remaining members of Houses Karstark and Umber will retain Karhold and Last Hearth. They will not, however, be allowed free rein.

“I will require some men, from loyal houses,” Jon looked pointedly at Lady Mormont, who nodded her assent, “to act as wardens to watch over the young lords. They will effectively be wards in their own homes. The younger Karstarks and Umbers will be given the chance to prove their renewed loyalty to House Stark and regain the honour that their houses have squandered in recent times.”

Cerwyn looked at him scathingly for a moment before nodding his agreement and retook his seat. Jon sat down and scrubbed his face with his hands, taking a deep breath. He had been King for less than a few hours and was already shouting at his supporters. He would have to get a hold of himself if he wished to keep these men on his side. No one would follow him if he lashed out at them for every minor provocation.

“Is there anything else, my lords?”, asked Jon, as he raised his head once more. He inwardly prayed that no one would answer as he craved the peace and quiet of his chamber to recollect his thoughts.

For a moment, it looked as if his prayers were granted as everyone looked at each other to see if they had any issues to raise. However, the silence was broken by a timid voice to Jon’s right.

“There was something, my king,” said Maester Wolkan, nervously. Jon turned to the former Bolton maester to see he was looking at Jon apprehensively.

Jon recalled the first time he saw the man, hiding in the Maester’s Tower after the battle. Jon had taken pity on the man and, after remembering Maester Luwin had told him once that maesters were assigned to castles and didn’t necessarily have loyalty to the occupants of said castle, had allowed him to remain as Winterfell’s maester.

Jon had grown to respect and pity the man in equal measure. He was a skilled maester with a large array of knowledge and wisdom but he, like many people, had spent many years living in fear of Ramsay and his depraved actions.

It was Wolkan who had given him an overview of what had befallen Theon under Ramsay’s thumb at the Dreadfort. After hearing about the torture that Theon had been subjected to, from flaying to castration, the hatred that boiled in Jon’s gut for the former Stark ward had been cooled slightly by a feeling of pity.

 _Regardless of Theon’s crimes, no one deserved what Ramsay had done to him_ , Jon had thought angrily.

“Yes, maester Wolkan?” inquired Jon placatingly, well aware that the man’s nervous disposition was probably due to his own angry outburst at Lord Cerwyn being a painful reminder of his last lord’s temper.

“We received a raven this morning, Your Grace,” the man replied, bowing his head, “from Rodrik of House Forrester. He said that he was riding to Winterfell and wished to speak to the true Warden of the North and, as you are now King, that is you. He says he will arrive on the morrow.”

“Very well,” said Jon. “Have Lord Rodrik and his men fed and rested upon their arrival and I will receive them shortly after.”

“Your Grace,” said Lord Glover, rising from his seat and bowing his head in deference. “House Forrester are sworn to House Glover and I would like to be there when you receive Lord Rodrik. I know of what he wishes to speak to you about and wish to offer my council and aid in this matter.”

“I would welcome your aid, Lord Glover,” said Jon, nodding his head respectfully. Lord Glover nodded back and retook his seat.

“And now, my lords and ladies,” said Jon, as he rose from his seat, “if you will all excuse me. It has been a tiring few days and I would like to take some rest. Any other concerns I will listen to on the morrow.”

As Jon left the hall, everyone rose from their seats in respect but Jon didn’t pay much attention. As he made his way back to his chambers he became more and more aware of how tired he was. It was crushing down on him more and more with every step.

 _Winning a large battle and being named a king within a few days will do that to you though_ , thought Jon.

As he neared his chambers he began to feel relief that he could shut out the world for a while and just sleep. He reached out to open his door when he heard a familiar voice call his name.

“Jon”, said Sansa. Jon turned to see her walking down the hall towards him, a look of worry on her face. “Are you well? You seemed anxious to escape just now.”

Jon smiled at her reassuringly and took a deep breath, trying to fight off the renewed wave of exhaustion that fought to overwhelm him.

“I am fine, Sansa. Do not worry yourself.” Jon reached out and put his hand on her shoulder. “Thank you for your concern, sister. But I will be fine after a night’s rest.”

“Jon, I wanted to thank you,” she said, looking him in the eyes. “For making me Lady of Winterfell, but shouldn’t you be the Lord of the Winterfell, as you are the king?”

“As I said to the other lords, Sansa,” Jon explained patiently. “As king, I will have a great number of responsibilities, which would leave the issues at Winterfell woefully unattended. And I trust no one more than my sister to help me with these problems, nor is there anyone more qualified to do so than someone who grew up here.”

After a moment, Sansa nodded in agreement and Jon gave her shoulder a supportive squeeze.

“Get some rest Sansa and tomorrow I will have the lord’s chamber prepared for you, and as King in the North I command you to take it”, said Jon forcefully, as he knew that she would argue the point. She looked for a moment as if she would, but then she looked like she thought better of it, wished him a good night and left for her chambers.

Jon shook his head chuckling and headed into his chambers, and found Ghost curled up in front of his fire. It had been a long time since Ghost had been in this room and he now took up the majority of the space between the foot of the bed and the hearth. Jon amused himself for a second with memories of the direwolf as a puppy, the hours they spent in this room as Jon trained and played with him.

As Jon entered, Ghost raised his head and blinked his blood-red eyes at him blearily and Jon could tell he was happy to see him by the wag of his tail.

“It has been a hell of a day, boy”, Jon murmured sleepily, as he reached down and scratched Ghost behind his ear.

Ghost tilted his head to one side and blinked his eyes, seemingly confused for a moment. He then leaned in and nuzzled Jon’s cheek with his wet nose and licked his face in a reassuring way. Jon laughed as he stood up and stretched. He felt another wave of tiredness wash over him and he staggered to his bed and fell down, fully clothed, and was instantly asleep.

*

Jon rose with the sun and looked around the room. Ghost was still asleep, in front of the now burned out fire. Jon was used to the cold after so long at the Wall so the early morning chill didn’t bother him.

He moved to the window and saw the familiar sight of the sun rising over the wolfswood. The sight filled him with joy and half-forgotten memories of his childhood in these walls coming flooding back. Teaching Arya the basics of swordplay when Lady Catelyn wasn’t looking. Sharing his first ale with Robb on his eleventh name day in the dead of night in Lord Eddard’s study. Spending hours huddled with Robb and Arya planning ways to scare Sansa in the family crypts. Jon pushed the memories away as a wave of grief rose up inside him. It had been a couple of years since Robb’s death but the loss was still as fresh as ever. And Arya. No one knew where she was, whether she was alive or dead. Somehow that made Jon feel even worse.

He waited until the sun had risen higher in the sky before he straightened his sleep-crumpled clothes and headed down the Great Hall. He passed several servants who all bowed to him and murmured “Your Grace” in his direction.

 _That is going to take a lot of getting used to_ , thought Jon.

As he entered the Great Hall, he saw that he was among one of the first to rise, along with several lords, including Lord Cerwyn. They all greeted him, with Cerwyn careful to avoid Jon’s eye. Jon sat down at the high table and the waiting servants were quick to rush to him to take his request.

As Jon broke his fast, the hall slowly began to fill. Sansa was one of the last to arrive and she entered while talking animatedly with Lady Mormont. Jon smiled slightly at the sight and returned to his meal.

“Did you sleep well, Jon?” Sansa asked as she joined him at the table.

“Aye,” replied Jon, turning to her. “It feels strange being home though.”

“I know what you mean,” she replied darkly. “It has been full of enemies and traitors for so long it is strange to see it feeling a little like home again.”

Jon shifted awkwardly in his seat. Sansa hadn’t said much about her time with the Boltons, and the look that appeared on her face whenever he brought it up had convinced him to not press the issue. He had long since made the decision that if Sansa was going to share her experiences with him, it would be when she was ready.

Jon was saved from the awkward silence that followed Sansa’s statement by the approach of Wolkan.

“Good morning, Your Grace, my lady,” he said as he bowed low. “Lord Rodrik Forrester and his party arrived in the night. He was fed and rested as you commanded, Your Grace. It was a smaller escort than we were expecting.”

“How small a party are we talking about, maester?” Sansa asked curiously.

“Well, my lady, it was just Lord Rodrik, his sister Talia and his Sentinel, Duncan Tuttle. He said that the three of them have been alone for a long time, on the run from the Boltons.”

“When they rise, please show them in.” Jon commanded. “And could you inform Lord Glover of their arrival?”

“I already took the liberty, Your Grace”, said Wolkan with a small bow. “He is ready to aid you when you receive Lord Rodrik.”

“Thank you, Wolkan.” Jon sat back in his chair and thought of the Forresters. He vaguely remembered the name from his lessons with maester Luwin as a child. He knew that they were famed for their crafting of ironwood, which made their wooden shields as hard as iron.

 _We might need a few of those soon_ , Jon thought with a sigh.

Before long the doors of the Great Hall opened and Wolkan appeared, leading three people into the room. At the head of the three was a tall man with long hair and beard, who walked with a cane and a very pronounced limp. As he grew closer, Jon saw that he had heavy scarring to the right side of his face and Jon wondered where he could have received such injuries.

Behind him came another, older man who reminded Jon of what Davos would have looked like in his younger years. Jon saw that he wore a bracer on his left arm that he saw, as they came to halt in front of him, was emblazoned with what he assumed was the sigil of House Forrester. Next to him was a young girl that Jon guessed was around Arya’s age. She was looking around nervously at all the assembled lords and Jon felt a rush of sympathy to her.

“Your Grace, my Lady.” Lord Rodrik said when he reached them.

He then struggled to bend the knee. Jon was impressed by the man’s determination when he waved away his companion’s attempts to aid him, even though Jon could tell it was causing him discomfort. As he rose to his feet, Jon followed suit and addressed him.

“We welcome you all to Winterfell, Lord Rodrik. I was sorry to hear that you have had trouble with the Boltons. Too many people have suffered at the hands of those traitors.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Rodrik said, nodding his head respectfully. “May I introduce my sister Talia and my Sentinel, Duncan Tuttle.”

As he introduced them, Rodrik’s companions bowed to Jon and Sansa. Jon noticed that Talia stayed close to Duncan at all times. He wondered what had happened to these people to cause such a young girl to be so afraid.

“My lord,” said Sansa gently. “Do you need to sit? I hope I do not offend but you seem to be in discomfort.”

“No need to worry, my lady,” Rodrik replied valiantly. “’Tis merely an old wound that has never properly gone away.”

“Where did you acquire such an injury, my lord?”

“He got it at the Red Wedding,” piped up Talia furiously. “He nearly died there, along with our father, while fighting for your brother.”

Jon saw Duncan bend down to whisper in Talia’s ear, no doubt to berate her for speaking out of turn in front of the King in the North but Jon didn’t care. Jon had returned to his seat while Sansa had been talking to Rodrik but he now rose back to his feet.

“Lord Rodrik, on behalf on Lady Sansa and myself I offer my sincere gratitude for your service to our brother and you have our condolences for the loss of your father.”

Rodrik and Talia both looked momentarily taken aback at Jon’s words. Rodrik was the first to compose himself.

“I thank you, Your Grace. House Forrester have been loyal bannermen to House Stark for centuries, and both my father and I were honoured to take up arms for your brother, the Young Wolf. I consider it an equal honour to pledge myself to the White Wolf, who rid us of the Boltons.”

Jon stood there, stunned. Jon knew that Robb’s men had been tremendously loyal to him and it was still strange to have people hold him in equal esteem. It filled him with pride and he inwardly pledged, not for the first time, to be worthy of these men’s loyalty.

“You said you had need of our help, my Lord,” said Jon, returning to his seat once more. “Speak and, I give you my word, we will aid you as best we can.”

“After your brother’s death, our family was put in a precarious position,” Rodrik explained sadly. “I was wounded at the Twins and was presumed dead so my younger brother Ethan was named the Lord of House Forrester. Soon after, Ramsay Bolton came to Ironrath to get him to bend the knee. My brother did so out of fear for my mother’s and Talia’s safety. The bastard killed him anyway.”

At her brother’s words, Talia began to cry. Sansa rose from her seat and went to the young girl. She wrapped her arms around her and was whispering words of comfort to her. Jon was immensely grateful on Talia’s behalf that Sansa was there, as he would have had no idea what to say to comfort the poor girl.

He saw Rodrik say something gratefully to Sansa, before he returned to Jon.

“To make matters worse, Your Grace,” he continued, in a voice thick with suppressed grief. “He stationed a group of Whitehill guards at Ironrath. Tensions have been high between our two houses for years. He also sent our younger brother Ryon to Highpoint as a ward to ensure our obedience.

“Things escalated between us, as the bastard knew it would, and it resulted in the death of our brother Asher. The Whitehills then attacked our home and, while I was able to kill Lord Ludd Whitehill, they took Ironrath. Our mother was killed in the attack, our brother Ryon hasn’t been seen since and my betrothed, Elaena Glenmore, was taken captive. I have since learned she has been killed when she refused to wed Gryff Whitehill.”

Rodrik tailed off and stared at the floor as he tried to compose himself and silence fell in the hall. Jon stared at the two Forresters and felt a tremendously amount of sympathy for the people stood in front of him. He too knew what that kind of betrayal and loss felt like.

Jon walked down from the high table to stand in front of Rodrik, who raised his head in surprise as Jon placed a reassuring hand on Rodrik’s shoulder.

“My lord. I too know what it feels like to lose your father and brothers to betrayal. There are few things worse in this world. I give you my word that the Whitehills will pay for what they have done to your family.”

“Your Grace, if I may?”

Jon turns to his right to see Lord Robett Glover on his feet and looking distinctly uncomfortable. Jon stepped back from the pair and nodded, giving him permission to speak.

“House Forrester has been sworn to House Glover for centuries. I was aware of their trouble but I was, at the time, working to regain Deepwood Motte from the Ironborn invaders, and was warned off aiding them by Ramsay Bolton.”

He then turned to Rodrik and Talia, the latter of whom was looking at him furiously over Sansa’s comforting embrace.

“My lord and lady, I apologise to you both. I have failed in my duties to protect you and, in doing so, you have lost your home and several members of your family. I cannot imagine what you have both been feeling for the last year or so while you have been on the run from the Boltons. I offer you the full support of House Glover to reclaim your home from Gryff Whitehill, and the full hospitality of Deepwood Motte is yours until we have achieved this goal.”

Rodrik paused for a moment before shaking the outstretched hand of Lord Glover and murmured his thanks. Talia looked like she was about to throw his offer back in his face, before thinking better of it.

Jon and Sansa returned to the high table and he caught her eye. She looked like she was feeling the same as he was: that the plight of House Forrester was so eerily similar to their own that they couldn’t just sit by and allow the Whitehills to remain at Ironrath.

“Lord Rodrik, you and your companions are welcome to remain at Winterfell for as long as you need before you leave with Lord Glover. If you should need further assistance, you only have to ask. I wish you good luck in reclaiming your home and I hope you enjoy the same success that Lady Sansa and myself have had.”

Sansa nodded her approval alongside him and Rodrik thanked them both before leaving with Robett Glover, alongside his sister and sentinel. Jon watched them go with a sense of sadness and anger. Too many good people had been killed, or had their families ruined thanks to the Boltons.

Jon remembered back to when he had been told about Ramsay’s death, how Sansa had allowed him to be fed to his dogs. He had been shocked at the time and horrified that his sister had been capable of such an act. But now, as he watched more of Ramsay’s victims try to reclaim what was theirs after he had torn their lives asunder, he felt that maybe Ramsay had gotten off easy.

*

Later that day, Jon was sat in the study of Winterfell, remembering all the times he had been in here when it had been his father’s. Usually it had been to receive a scolding with Robb for shirking their duties or for scaring their younger siblings with their pranks. Jon smiled broadly and allowed himself to wallow in memories of a simpler and happier time, until he was shaken from his musings by a knock as the door.

“Enter,” called Jon, as he rose from his desk.

Maester Wolkan, bowing his head meekly, entered followed by Yohn Royce. The Vale man was an imposing figure which was exaggerated by the fact that he always seemed to be wearing his large steel breastplate. Ever since they had been introduced, Jon had thought it had made him look like he was a very paunchy man, rather than the seasoned warrior that Jon knew he more than likely was.

“Your Grace, Lord Royce as you requested,” said Wolkan obediently, with his head bowed.

Jon had told him many times since returning to Winterfell that he didn’t need to act so submissive in his presence, that he was not Ramsay and he wouldn’t punish him for minor transgressions. Since then, there had been an improvement, but Jon suspected that this would be a work in progress.

“Thank you, Wolkan”, said Jon gratefully, as he rounded his desk to approach Royce. “You may return to your duties.”

The maester nodded and backed out of the room, closing the door with a snap. Jon turned to Royce and extended his hand.

“Welcome Lord Royce. I thought it was past time we talked.”

“Your Grace,” said Royce, as he grasped Jon’s hand in a firm grip.

After they shook, Jon motioned for him to be seated opposite him and they both took their seats.

“I knew your father, you know,” said Royce, fixing Jon with a steely gaze. “We hunted together many times. He was a great man. I see you have his sense of honour in your actions, and this is among the highest forms of praise I can give you.”

Jon sat there, taken aback by this admission. He had known about his father’s time in the Vale as a child but he hadn’t spoken much about it, other than his friendships with Robert Baratheon or, Jon’s namesake, Jon Arryn.

“I thank you, my lord,” said Jon appreciatively. “My father was indeed a great man and I hope that one day I can live up to his example.”

There was a beat of silence between them, which seemed longer than it actually was given the exchange that had just taken place. Jon cleared his throat and proceeded.

“I have called you here, Lord Royce, as I wish to gain a better knowledge of the Vale and its people. I grew up in the North and know it well but you, and the other Vale lord that aided us against the Bolton’s, proclaimed me your king too, and I would like you to tell me as much as you can.”

Lord Royce looked at him curiously, as if he was questioning the validity of his request.

“With respect, Your Grace. Why me?” he asked sceptically. “Lord Baelish already knows your sister and is the uncle of our Lord.”

Jon couldn’t fail to notice the undercurrent of loathing that entered Royce’s voice at the mention of Littlefinger.

“There are several reasons why I have chosen you, my lord, over Lord Baelish.

“Firstly, Baelish is not of the Vale, you are. You were born there, you were raised there, it is in your blood. Baelish has lived there for what? A few months? Not even that? Hardly enough to give him the knowledge that I require.

“Secondly, while yes, he is the uncle of Lord Robin Arryn, it is only through marriage and, while it does give him a position of respect, it doesn’t give him as much as he thinks it does.”

At this, Jon thought he saw a small smirk appear on the man’s face, but it disappeared almost as soon as it had appeared so he dismissed it.

“And finally, after what transpired between my sister and the Boltons, I do not trust Littlefinger.”

There was no mistaking it this time, a smirk appeared on his face and he sat up a little straighter in his seat and narrowed his eyes slightly.

“You do not?” he asked inquisitively, leaning forward slightly.

“I do not,” repeated Jon unequivocally. “My sister spent time in the Vale didn’t she, Lord Royce?”

He nodded so Jon continued.

“Do you know how she made her way there?” Jon asked.

“Lord Baelish smuggled her out of the capital during the uproar surrounding Joffrey Baratheon’s assassination. He claimed that he did so due to the friendship that they had developed in King’s Landing, and that he merely wished to keep her safe from the Lannisters.”

“Do you really believe that?” questioned Jon, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. “From the little I know about Baelish, that was one of around ten reasons he acted in that way.”

“Ha! That might be an understatement, Your Grace”, exclaimed Royce.

Jon looked down at his hands on his desk and noted that they had coiled into fists into anticipation of his next question. The mere thought of it was enough to make his blood boil.

“And how were you told that Sansa was married to Ramsay Bolton?” Jon enquired, trying desperately to keep the rage out of his voice.

“He had told us that he planned to stow Sansa away to his home, the Fingers. However, we later learned that they had been ambushed by the Boltons and Sansa captured.”

“So,” said Jon, leaning back in chair, smirking slightly. “Their transport is attacked, Sansa is captured but Littlefinger is miraculously unharmed and allowed to return to you to spread word of her kidnapping. Highly convenient, wouldn’t you say?”

“I thought the same thing, Your Grace”, chuckled Royce approvingly. “But when I confronted him about this he used his influence over the young Lord Arryn and not so subtly threatened to have me executed if I spoke out against him.”

Royce had practically spat out the latter half of the sentence and Jon couldn’t suppress a smile. He had finally found someone who despised Littlefinger as much as he and Sansa did.

“What would you say about Littlefinger’s influence over your lord?”

“Lord Arryn looks to him as his trusted uncle and guide, even more so now after his mother’s death. But the boy is weak, he makes foolish and imprudent decisions – “

He stopped abruptly, casting a wary look at Jon. He was clearly not above criticising his lord but he also didn’t trust Jon fully yet.

“I promise you, Lord Royce,” said Jon conspiratorially, leaning forward slightly. “Anything you say in this study will stay between us. I am not in the habit of betraying people’s confidences.”

Clearly placated by Jon’s words, Lord Royce renewed his tirade.

“The boy was coddled by his mother his whole life! She was still feeding him from her teats when he was ten years old!”

Jon massaged the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb, trying desperately not to think too hard about the implications of that statement. Lord Royce didn’t seem to notice and carried on regardless.

“He has no backbone. No wits. No intellect. Every decision he makes, it with that whoremonger whispering in his ear. Mark my words, Your Grace, Littlefinger is the Lord of the Vale in all but name!”

Royce finished his speech, his face flushed from his vehemence, and sat glaring across the room at Jon, who sat matching his gaze.

“My lord, I think you will agree with me that something needs to be done with Littlefinger.”

When Royce furiously nodded his assent, Jon continued.

“I would ask you to return to the Vale and make efforts to get yourself closer to the Lord Arryn, give him another trusted advisor. Someday Baelish will overplay his hand and, if our plan works, he might not have the Lord Arryn to rely on to get him out of trouble.”

Jon looked at the man opposite him, whose brow was furrowed in deep thought. He was clearly running through the merits of Jon’s plan in his head. After a few moments, he nodded his head and extended his hand across the desk for Jon to shake, which he did.

“And now, my lord,” said Jon agreeably, pleasantly surprised that this meeting had ended up so well. “We have achieved one of my aims for this meeting, it is now time for the other. Knowledge of the Vale.”

For the next hour or so, Royce talked to Jon about various aspects of the Vale. From its noble houses to the mountain clans that they had clashed with for centuries. He spoke of the Eyrie, built high in the mountains, with its moon door and sky cells. At Jon’s request, he also spoke about Eddard Stark’s time there as a boy, about his blossoming kinship with Robert Baratheon and the respect he gained for his father figure Jon Arryn.

At the end of their meeting, the two shook hands once more and nodded, with silent agreement passing between them over their alliance. With that, Lord Royce bowed and excused himself.

After he left Jon settled into his seat and chuckled to himself. Maybe he wasn’t as dense regarding the politics of ruling than he thought. Shaking his head furiously, Jon didn’t allow that thought to take root for long. He was more than aware that this agreement with Royce, and his perceived skill in negotiating it, were more likely the product of a common enemy than anything else. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door and Jon called for them to enter.

For the second time that day it was Wolkan, and he was looking more flustered than ever. His cheeks were red and he was panting. He had clearly run the whole way here. Jon looked at his quizzically and nodded at him, silently giving him permission to speak.

“There has been a raven for you my lord,” he puffed, holding out the scroll of parchment.

Jon, now more confused than ever, took it from the man’s shaking hand and looked down and the seal.

He froze.

It was a three-headed dragon. The sigil of House Targaryen.

He sat for nearly a minute, just staring at the scroll in his slightly shaking hand.

 _This can’t be true_ , thought Jon numbly. _The Targaryens are all gone. Except for…_

Jon recalled, with a jolt, that Maester Aemon, at the Night’s Watch, had mentioned to him once that he had received a note about his last living relative: Daenerys. Jon scoured his memories for exactly what Aemon had told him about her.

Apparently, she was a woman of well renowned beauty and was living to the east, in Essos, and she was acting as the ruler of a large section of Slaver’s Bay. She was also said to have three dragons but Jon hadn’t believed Aemon when he had told him this. However, later, after Hardhome, he realised the folly of such thinking. He had seen the undead led by four White Walkers, creatures that have considered just stories for centuries, whereas dragons were real, and there were many skulls and the tales of Aegon the Conqueror, and his descendants, to prove it.

Jon brought himself back to the present with a small shake of his head and turned to Wolkan.

“Go and find Lord Royce. Apologise to him for the suddenness but send him back here immediately.” Jon commanded, trying calm to swirling storm of his thoughts. “Then go and find Lady Sansa, Ser Davos and Tormund and send them up.”

Wolkan nodded his understanding and backed out of the room.

Jon broke the seal of the note and read it quickly.

_To the Lord of Winterfell,_

_You are hereby commanded to present yourself at Dragonstone to swear your fealty to Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Breaker of Chains and the Mother of Dragons._

_We are aware of your claim to be the so-called King in the North. In swearing fealty, you would be giving up any claim to such a title. If you refuse, you, and all who follow you, will be considered an enemy of Her Grace and will be dealt with accordingly._

Jon was stunned. It was her. The Daenerys that he had been told of by Aemon, come home to reclaim her throne. It seemed like the dragons were real too.

Jon shook his head in disbelief and looked back at the note and saw that there was another message at the bottom, written in a different hand.

_Sorry about this Jon._

_I have spoken to the Queen in your defence but she is not in the practise of acknowledging other sovereigns. I know that this seems more of a threat than a request but, regardless of her bluntness, Daenerys is the best hope for the Seven Kingdoms, certainly more than my fool of a sister who currently sits on the Iron Throne._

_Please do come to Dragonstone, even if it is just to share a drink with me._

_Your old friend,_

_Tyrion Lannister._

Jon felt a broad grin spread its way across his face. He remembered the dwarf from when he had made his way to the wall, a literal lifetime ago. Tyrion had given him some valuable advice and Jon knew that, without it, he probably wouldn’t have lasted very long at the Night’s Watch.

 _So Tyrion was with Daenerys_ , pondered Jon. _That must be quite the tale_.

At that moment, the door to the study and Sansa came in, followed by Royce, Davos and Tormund, all of whom looked confused at the sudden summons. Wolkan lingered by the door, looking uncertain.

“Will you be requiring my services, Your Grace?” he asked.

“No, thank you Wolkan.” Jon said respectfully. “I know you have many injured from the battle to tend to. They need you more than we do at present.”

Wolkan bowed and departed. Jon then turned to those who remained.

“Thank you all for coming so swiftly,” said Jon steadily. He held up the note so they could see it. “We have received a raven.”

“From whom, brother?” Sansa asked hesitantly.

“From Daenerys Targaryen.”

At this Sansa, Royce and Davos all gasped and their faces showed mingled shock and disbelief. Only Tormund didn’t have of a reaction, he was mostly confused about the effect this news had on his companions.

“She has landed at Dragonstone,” continued Jon doggedly. “She has requested that I give up my claim as King in the North and swear fealty to her.”

At his words, he passed the letter to Sansa, whose eyes widened further the more she read. Her expression softened slightly as she reached the bottom of the parchment, at Tyrion’s message. Jon knew that she had been forced into marriage with his friend, but Sansa had told him that Lord Tyrion had been very good to her and had not forced her to do anything she had not wished to, despite being ordered to.

She passed the letter on to Davos and met Jon’s eye. Her gaze was filled with disbelief and, unless Jon was mistaken, anger. When Davos finished the letter, he stared it for a moment, as if he was waiting for more words to appear to further explain. “

Fuck me.” He said finally, before jumping slightly, as he remembered whose company he was in and turned to Sansa. “Apologies, my lady.”

“No need Ser Davos,” chuckled Sansa lightly. “I have heard worse.”

While Royce read the note, there was silence in the room until he tried to pass it to Tormund. He looked at the parchment, with a look on his face like Royce was trying to pass him a dead animal.

“I cannot read the words,” Tormund stated bluntly. He turned to Jon. “What does it say?”

“It says that Daenerys of House Targaryen has commanded me to sail to Dragonstone to bend the knee to her as the true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“I thought you were a king now, Jon Snow,” said Tormund, smirking slightly. “So why can’t you tell this Targaryen woman to go fuck herself and carry on as you are.”

“Because,” said Davos patiently, before Jon could answer, “telling a Targaryen, who are known for their bad tempers and worse sanity, to go fuck themselves is the same as saying ‘Please hunt me down and kill me slowly.’ And Daenerys would be even worse, as apparently, she has dragons.”

At this, Tormund, who had been listening with an expression of amused disbelief, recoiled slightly and his eyes widened so much Jon was afraid that they would leave his head.

“D-dragons,” he stammered, looking widely around the room as if daring someone to contradict Davos. When no one did, he took a deep breath to compose himself.

“How many does she have?”

“While I was with Stannis, we heard reports that she had three,” offered Davos hesitantly.

Jon looked at him and could see that was as unnerved by this news as Tormund was, but he was better at keeping a hold on himself. Jon lowered his gaze back to the letter, deep in thought, and let the discussion run past him for a moment.

“She is asking for a lot,” scoffed Royce belligerently. “And all of it under the threat of war if we refuse.”

“This is not that out of the norm, Lord Royce,” reminded Davos. “We received a similar message from Cersei Lannister a few days after taking Winterfell.”

“And what did you do with that one?”

“Ha! Jon Snow ripped it up and threw it in the fire,” said Tormund, sounding more like his usual self again.

“Well do the same with this one,” said Royce, banging his fist on the desk to emphasise his point.

“Her dragons could be useful,” said Jon quietly, more to himself than anyone in particular.

He looked up and saw the four others looking at him with looks of disbelief and curiosity.

“One of the only ways to kill the wights is with fire, and what is a better way to get fire than from a dragon? Plus, I imagine that she has amassed a large army, and we will need every man we can get in the war to come.”

“What are you saying, Jon?” Sansa enquired shakily, as she took a step towards him. “You would agree to her terms? Give up the title that the Northern lords have given you?”

“No”, replied Jon forcefully, shaking his head. “I will suggest an alliance. She aids us in the war against the Night King and we aid her to get her the Iron Throne.”

There was silence at his words, as they all valued the merits of his plan. Jon flicked his eyes between them and examined their expressions, to see who thought his plan had worth and who thought he was losing his mind. Before long Davos started nodding his head slightly.

“It could work,” he said, toying with the small pouch around his neck that Jon knew contained the bones from his removed fingers. “But will the Northern lords accept it if it means that they will send their men off to war?”

“I doubt it,” said Sansa uncertainly. “They have only just rid themselves of the Boltons and many of them are still recovering from their losses in the War of Five Kings. I can’t imagine that many of them would welcome a new war so soon.”

“We have no choice,” replied Jon resolutely, scrubbing his face with his hands. “If we do nothing then Daenerys will come North if she takes the Throne. Even if she fails, Cersei will do the same, as she hates our family.

“And besides, regardless of whoever is on the Throne, the real war will come from the North and that one we cannot and will not avoid. We may need this Queen’s aid and her dragons too. I _have_ to go.”

Jon looked at the faces of his advisors, who were returning his stare, shocked. Jon set his jaw and crossed his arms across his chest, signifying that he was done speaking and needed their agreement. Davos and Tormund nodded their assent, followed by Royce. Jon turned to Sansa, who, after a moments deliberation, nodded too.

“Very well,” said Jon, rubbing his hand together absent-mindedly. “Davos and Tormund, I would like you to join me in this. Davos, Lord Manderly left this morning. Find Wolkan and have him send a raven to White Harbour for when Manderly returns there. It is the largest port in the North and we will need to sail from there to make our way to Dragonstone. We leave in three days.”

Davos nodded but Tormund looked at Jon questioningly.

“Why me, Jon Snow?” he asked. “I am not skilled in talking and I know nothing of your Southerner customs.”

“Don’t you want to see a dragon, Tormund?” Jon laughed briefly, before growing serious once more. “I need people I trust with me in this. Davos will help me negotiate with the Targaryen. You will be there to aid me if we should need to draw steel.”

Tormund nodded at these words and followed Davos from the room. Jon then turned to Royce.

“I would like you to leave for the Vale on the morrow, Lord Royce. We need to put our plan into action.”

And with that, Royce followed them out the door, leaving Jon and Sansa alone. Jon sat down at the desk and put his head in his hands. Being king was a lot more stressful than he had anticipated.

“That is a good idea, Jon”, said Sansa kindly, as she took a seat opposite him. “Out of Daenerys Targaryen and Cersei Lannister, I know who I would rather side with.”

“That was my thought too,” said Jon, smiling as he raised his head to look at Sansa. “I hope everything will be good for you here while I am gone.”

“‘There must always be a Stark in Winterfell,’” quoted Sansa with a sad smile. “That is what Father always taught us.”

Jon nodded in understanding and silence fell between the siblings, as they both knew that the other was wrapped in memories of their father.

“What is your plan with Lord Royce?” Sansa asked suddenly.

“Littlefinger,” Jon replied.

Sansa raised an eyebrow at him curiously and Jon explained the agreement he had made with Lord Royce. Once he had finished talking, Sansa sat in silence for a moment, deep in thought.

“That is a good idea, Jon,” she said finally. “Getting Robin out from under Littlefinger’s influence will deprive Baelish of a valued ally in keeping himself out of trouble. I am impressed, but we must be careful.”

“I wouldn’t get carried away, Sansa,” said Jon quickly. “The agreement I made with Royce was more due to the fact that we both despise Littlefinger, rather than my skill as a negotiator. Why do you think Davos is coming with me to Dragonstone?”

“Even so,” laughed Sansa. “It is impressive. I was going to ask you about this actually. What do we do if he tries something while you are away?”

Jon reclined in his chair, looking up at the ceiling and thinking hard. He would have to careful with any measure he took against Littlefinger, as he could use any mistake against him. An idea struck him, so he pulled a piece of parchment towards him and began writing.

“If you suspect that Littlefinger is planning anything, anything, put him in a cell. We will deal with him when I return.”

“Jon, that is a terrible idea,” replied Sansa fearfully, leaning forward towards him. “You do that and he will twist it and use it against you.”

“Sansa, I trust your judgement. I don’t know anyone else who knows the way he thinks more than you. If you have to imprison him, then you can use this as your justification.”

Jon looked down at the parchment in front and hoped that it would be enough to get past Littlefinger.

_I, Jon Snow, the King in the North, hereby declare that any action taken by Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, against Lord Petyr Baelish was with my full authority and knowledge._

Jon signed the parchment and pushed it across the desk to Sansa, who picked it up and read it. When she finished, she looked back up at him with a strange look on her face.

“Jon,” she whispered gently. “You know this means that, if I make a mistake, he will make you the first person that he will turn his attention to.”

“I know,” replied Jon, nodding. “But I trust you Sansa, and I trust your judgement, so keep an eye on him and act as you see fit, as the Lady of Winterfell.”

Sansa looked at him for a moment before nodding briefly, with relief and gratitude in Jon’s trust showing on her face. She stood up and prepared to leave.

“Sansa,” Jon called, just before she closed the door. She put her head around the door to look back at him. “Speak to Lord Royce before he leaves. If you have any advice for him on how to handle Lord Robin Arryn, I would appreciate it if you would share it with him.”

She looked at him for a second, before smiling broadly and departing. Jon sighed deeply and settled back behind his desk. He looked around the room, not really taking anything in, as he lost himself in his thoughts.

Daenerys would either prove to be a valuable ally against both Cersei and the Night King or she would be the thing caused his death, with no Melisandre around to bring him back this time. Jon shook his head, knowing that he had no real choice.

He would have to ally with Daenerys Targaryen or he, and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, would be unlikely to survive the winter.

*

Three days later, Jon was in the courtyard of Winterfell, making the final preparations for his journey to Dragonstone. He saddled his horse himself, disregarding people’s protests, and checked his provisions for himself and Ghost.

He had decided to take the direwolf with him to Dragonstone. Besides the usual reason for Ghost being with him, that of their deep bond, Jon wanted to make sure that Daenerys saw him. If she was going to show him her dragons, something that represented the sigil of her house, then Jon would return in kind.

Jon cast his eyes around the courtyard and saw the Stark men, who would be joining them, preparing themselves. There had been multiple reports of former Bolton men that had fled into the surrounding countryside and had begun preying on travellers as bandits, so Sansa, Davos and at least seven other lords, had insisted on Jon taking an escort with him on his way to White Harbour, which, while unwilling at first, he had accepted.

Jon walked over to Tormund, who was in the process of saddling his horse, and recalled with a smile the events that had led to the Wilding wearing a new set of armour. The day after Daenery’s ultimatum, Jon had approached him to discuss the weapons and armour of the Free Folk. They were still using weapons that they had either crudely forged themselves or had taken from dead rangers of the Night’s Watch, and their amour was limited to various furs.

Initially, Tormund had been unwilling. He had said that he didn’t want to be fighting while wearing one of ‘those suits your Southern knights like to cower inside’. Jon had spent a long time trying to convince him that the enemies that he would be fighting would be wielding better weapons than the wildling tribes he was used to fighting, so his furs would be next to useless.

Eventually, he had succumbed to Jon’s reasoning, and the Winterfell blacksmith had made him a set of boiled leather armour, complete with bracers and greaves. It was better suited to Tormund’s style of fighting, allowing him to be agile enough to dodge most of his opponent’s attacks. He had taken it upon himself to tailor it further to make it more in keeping with the culture of his people. It now was fur lined and had various animal bones set into the pouches and belts.

Following his lead, the members of the Free Folk who still remained at Winterfell before heading north, had also been improving their armament. However, their sets were more mismatched, with various pieces coming from different sets of armours. Jon had assumed that they had salvaged it from the Bolton dead, which was confirmed when he had walked past a Wildling and seen his chest piece, with the Bolton flayed man sigil crudely scoured off.

Jon stopped next to Tormund and turned to face him.

“Ready to meet the Dragon Queen, Jon Snow?” Tormund asked, chuckling to himself.

“I think so,” said Jon, smirking. “Are you ready to meet her dragons?”

“I’ve seen the White Walkers. I think I can handle a few dragons.”

Jon and Tormund led their horses to the gatehouse, where Davos was already waiting with their half dozen guardsmen, and stopped alongside them.

Jon turned to look up at the keep. He had spent most of his life within its walls. When he had gone to the Night’s Watch he had feared that he would never see it again and the betrayal of the Boltons and their occupation of it had seemed to make it certain. Now he had seized it back from their hands, he was leaving it again and, once again, he couldn’t suppress the feeling that his destination could mean the end of him. For good this time.

The doors to the keep opened suddenly and Sansa walked out, surrounded by several of the lords who still remained at Winterfell. The group made their way towards Jon and his travelling party and stopped in front of him.

“Good luck, Jon,” said Sansa, as he hugged him tightly. “Be safe. I hope you can get what we need from the Dragon Queen.”

“As do I, sister,” said Jon, as he released her and took a step back. “I hope that all is well with you here and that you don’t have too much trouble to deal with in my absence.”

As he said this, Jon looked over to see Littlefinger standing against the far wall of the courtyard and saw him narrow his eyes at Jon’s gaze. Jon didn’t drop his glare, trying to convey his distaste for the man, and a silent warning that if he tried anything, Jon would be all too pleased to part his head with his neck.

Finally, Jon averted his gaze and looked back to his sister and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“Goodbye, Sansa. I hope to see you soon.”

Jon turned and mounted his horse. He led the procession out of the main gate on the trek south to White Harbour. Before Winterfell was out of sight, Jon swivelled in his saddle to gaze at it once more and made a solemn vow to himself, and the Old Gods, that the next time he saw it, it would be with Daenerys Targaryen and her army standing beside him.


	2. Daenerys I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the feedback on the last chapter.  
> Feel free to keep commenting, I love reading them all.  
> EDIT: Sorry guys. I am still getting used to this. Ignore the note that the bottom that has somehow carried over from the first chapter. Next up is a Sam chapter, not another Dany.

 

Daenerys

 

Dany stood on the deck of her ship with her eyes closed, feeling the salty spray whip across her face and hearing the call of the gulls high above her. She felt a rising excitement building inside her, the closer they got to their destination.

She was going home.

Dany had dreamt of this moment her whole life: arriving back in Westeros after so long away to reclaim her family’s rightful throne. It may not be in the manner she had dreamt of in her childhood; standing at the head of a union of Unsullied, Dothraki and rebel Westerosi houses, but she was finally doing what Viserys had boasted of for as long as she could remember. Dany couldn’t suppress a smile as she imagined the look on Viserys’ face if he could see her now.

Dany opened her eyes and saw land on the horizon. They had been at sea for several weeks now, with no landmarks to discern where they were, although Yara had constantly maintained that they were going in the right direction. After so many days of seeing nothing, it had been a relief, the previous day, when the mist had parted and the Seven Kingdoms became visible on the horizon.

Tyrion and Varys had been on deck with her and had shared Dany’s relief and joy at the sight. The dwarf had even raised his cup in a toast, which had caused Varys to roll his eyes disdainfully and Dany to shake her head, despite having a broad smile on her face.

They had decided to land at Dragonstone so they could rest and resupply before they started the conquest properly. It would also, as Tyrion had advised, give her a chance to give the lords of Westeros an ultimatum: bend the knee to the rightful queen or there would be no mercy given.

When Tyron had said this, a common worry of hers had resurfaced in her mind, one that she always tried to bury whenever it arose. What would the people of the Seven Kingdoms think of her? Would they see her as the rightful ruler returning from overseas to free them from their corrupt and uncaring rulers? Or would they see the last child of the Mad King coming to repress them, with her dragons and large army?

Dany had always assumed while growing up, listening to Viserys’ tall tales about their family, that the people would accept her arrival with open arms. However, as she had heard more and more about the harm that her father had done, killing innocent people by burning them alive, among other atrocities, she had begun to wonder, what if they saw her as a painful reminder of that terrible time?

Dany had resolved to try to rule with a firm but fair hand and to listen to her advisors as closely as possible. Her knowledge of Westeros had improved with hours spent with Tyrion and Varys, but she knew that she was still lacking in that regard. They had taught her the names of the houses and who they had quarrelled with, who their liege lords were, what other house they were joined to by marriage. Mormont, Dayne, Crakehall, Tarth. It made her head spin just thinking about it, but she was grateful for the lessons.

Dany turned to look down at the people on the deck below her. She shared her ship with Tyrion, Varys, Yara and Theon Greyjoy, Missandei, Grey Worm and a Dothraki commander named Barbarro. He was a former bloodrider to _khal_ Forzho and had proven himself to be highly loyal to Daenerys since her takeover at Vaes Dothrak. He was a tall man with a long beard and a braid that reached mid-way down his back. Despite being on the ship for the best part of a month, he still always carried his _arakh_ with him at all times, ready for a fight.

He also, interestingly, had a rudimentary knowledge of the Common Tongue, so Dany had made him the commander of her Dothraki forces, in a position similar to Grey Worm for the Unsullied, and commanded him to receive lessons from Missandei to improve his grasp of the language. She hoped that this would mean he could communicate better on the field of battle with her other commanders.

Barbarro had struggled initially with being on the ship. He, like the other Dothraki, had never crossed the ‘poison water’ before and had been violently sick for the first few days. He had been better since and had managed to grasp the Common Tongue enough to be able to take part in conversations, even if the sentences were a little simplistic.

Dany heard footsteps from behind her and turned her head slightly to see Tyrion swaying towards her. She suspected that his unsteadiness on his feet was an equal combination of the rocking of the ship and his constant consumption of the wine stores on board. He stopped next to her and braced himself against the railing.

“Yara says that we will arrive at Dragonstone before nightfall, my Queen,” he said, looking up at her with his emerald eyes shining.

“Thank you, Tyrion,” replied Dany distractedly, as she looked over the deck with unfocused eyes. She paused for a second before deciding to confide in her Hand. “It feels strange being so close. So close to everything I have ever wanted and yet…”

“And yet, what?”

“I don’t know what to expect when I arrive. Will they see me as the daughter of the Mad King who caused so much pain and misery or as someone who will help save them?”

Tyrion looked at her with pity in his eyes. She could tell that he was aware how much that this was weighing on her. She hadn’t known him for very long and yet he seemed to always know exactly what she was thinking and providing the exact words she needed to hear, even when he was as drunk as he was presently.

“No ruler has ever had the support of _all_ the people. It is wise to learn that early so as to not overly raise your expectations. Not everyone will throw themselves at your feet upon your arrival. Too many of them have profited under the rule of my _beloved_ family.”

Dany turned to him, surprised at the contempt in his voice. He had spoken little about his family, but she knew that he had murdered his father during his escape from King’s Landing, where he had been imprisoned suspected of murdering the king, his nephew.

 _As complicated a family as my own,_ thought Dany morosely.

Tyrion seemed lost in his thoughts, with a look of anger and distaste etched across his scarred face. After a moment, he seemed to shake himself and turned to her.

“If you rule as justly as you can, while still remaining stern on those who overstep their bounds, then you will gain many supporters. You will be fine, Daenerys.”

As he said this, he reached across and gave the back of her hand an encouraging squeeze. Dany looked down at him and smiled, her resolve bolstered by the warm words of her advisor. They both turned at the sound of a horn and saw Theon hobbling his way towards them.

Whenever she saw him, Dany was filled with a profound sense of pity. He had obviously endured something horrific, from the way that he would stand quivering in the corner of a room whenever people would talk, with his eyes darting around, as if he was expecting everyone to lash out and attack him.

Along with the pity, however, there was a sense of anger at the crimes he had committed. He had admitted to killing children and then burning their bodies to mislead people about the death of the two youngest Stark children. While she had no real predisposition towards the Starks themselves, it infuriated Dany that he was willing to allow children to die to save his own reputation.

Theon reached them both and bowed clumsily.

“We are approaching Dragonstone, Your Grace,” he muttered, still addressing his feet. “We have the wind and will dock within the hour.”

“Thank you, Greyjoy,” said Dany imperiously. “You are dismissed.”

As Theon scampered away, she turned to Tyrion.

“Could you please gather Missandei, Grey Worm, Barbarro and Varys and meet me in the war room?”

Tyrion bowed and made his way along the ship, swaying this way and that, which caused Dany to smile.

 _He may be a drunk,_ thought Dany fondly. _But I would be lost without him._

Dany made her way below deck to the war room. It was a large cabin that they had repurposed with a large table in the centre that was covered in a map of Westeros and the walls were plastered in Targaryen banners.

When she arrived, Varys was already there, hunched over the table. When she entered, he stood up and bowed.

“Your Grace.”

“Lord Varys,” said Dany, as she circled the table to take her place at its head. “I assume that Lord Tyrion didn’t have to find you. I rarely see you out of this room.”

“You are right, Your Grace,” Varys replied, with a smile appearing on his face. “I have been preparing for our arrival. I expect that I will have many message from my little birds when we arrive on Dragonstone.”

The door then opened and Tyrion entered, followed by Missandei, Grey Worm, Barbarro and Yara. Dany was confused for a moment.

“I didn’t send for you, Yara,” said Dany inquisitively.

“I know”, Yara replied confidently, as she sat herself in a chair and rested her feet on the edge of the map table. “I needed to talk to you about our sea defences for when we arrive.”

“Very well,” said Dany, as she sighed and shook her head.

Dany had come to respect Yara greatly, with her experience in commanding her men evident, but her laid back attitude and dismissiveness frustrated Dany regularly.

“I make her go, _khaleesi”_ , grunted Barbarro, as he unsheathed his _arakh_ and moved threateningly towards Yara, who didn’t even blink.

“I’d like to see you try, horselord,” she scoffed, as she got to her feet and stared him down.

“Enough!” Dany commanded. The two continued to glare at each other for a moment before returning to their places. Dany looked between the two of them angrily before taking a breath.

“We are so close to our destination, we cannot afford to fight among ourselves. We need to discuss what we are to do when we land on Dragonstone.”

“I agree, my Queen,” said Tyrion, as he refilled his already empty wine goblet. “We have already discussed the ravens you should send to the other lords but there are many other matters to deal with.”

Varys took a step forward and addressed them all.

“Until recently, Dragonstone was the seat of Stannis’ branch of House Baratheon. Many people there might not be so welcoming to us.”

“We make them.” Barbarro said forcefully, with his hand once again on the handle of his _arakh_.

Dany had to suppress the urge to roll her eyes. He was an excellent solder and commander but Barbarro’s skills in diplomacy were limited. She had a feeling that this would be his suggestion for every problem that they would encounter.

“We cannot kill an island full of innocent people, just because they don’t want Queen Daenerys there,” exclaimed Missandei, scandalised.

Dany looked at her friend, and shared in her distaste for the suggestion. She knew that the noble houses of Westeros might not want her there but the smallfolk had little interest in the politics of the high lords as long as it doesn’t affect them too much. She remembered Ser Jorah telling her that long ago and felt a pang of loss at his absence. She looked around the table and her eyes fell to a space between Grey Worm and Tyrion.

 _He should be there,_ Dany thought sadly. _I hope he finds the cure soon._

She had been angry at Jorah for a long time. He had betrayed her to the Usurper and had passed information about her to Varys while feigning his allegiance to her. But he had proven that his loyalty to her had become true by repeatedly trying to return to her, even on pain of death and, in the process, had even contracted greyscale.

Dany remembered the feeling of sorrow and guilt that she had felt when she had seen his scaly-looking arm for the first time. He had been so determined to bring her Tyrion that he had risked sailing through the ruins of Valyria, even while knowing about the stone men. In that moment, along with his declaration of love for her, Dany had forgiven him. She had finally realised the depths of his devotion to her and she had been grateful beyond words. Dany wanted him to be cured and find his way back to her. She wanted her first act as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms to be to pardon her long-time advisor and to finally welcome him home.

Dany was vaguely aware that everyone had turned to her. Evidently somebody had asked for her approval.

“I’m sorry,” said Dany apologetically. “Could you repeat that?”

“Of course, Your Grace,” said Varys. “Upon landing, we will put the Unsullied and Dothraki into separate camps, to eliminate any possible unrest between the two.”

“Unsullied will not fight,” said Grey Worm testily. “We fight when Queen Daenerys tells us to.”

“All the same,” Varys replied quickly, with an appeasing gesture towards Grey Worm. “It would be best to try to avoid it.”

“When we land, we should set up patrols around the island,” interjected Yara, as she drained her goblet and poured another. “We will need to keep an eye open for an attack from my _dear_ uncle.”

“They all are sound ideas,” said Dany, as she stood up, drawing every eye to her. “Grey Worm, Yara and Barbarro I want to you to tell your men that no inhabitant of Dragonstone is to be harmed under any circumstances, unless I specifically order you to do so.

“I know that the Unsullied are unlikely to, Grey Worm,” said Dany, inclining her head to him. “But it still needs to be said.”

As Grey Worm nodded his assent, there was a knock at the door and Theon entered, his eyes firmly placed on the floor in front of him.

“We are approaching Dragonstone now, Your Grace,” he stammered nervously.

As Dany made her way to door excitedly, eager to catch a glimpse of her birthplace, she couldn’t help but notice the way that Theon jumped out of her way, quivering, like he was expecting her to strike him. Dany faltered a little, confused, before continuing on her way. She had grown used to his actions by now, even if she had given him no reason to suspect that she would harm him.

Dany made her way to the top deck, stared out at Dragonstone and felt her breath catch in her throat.

A towering castle loomed over the island, made of pure black stone. She craned her neck to look at its towers and saw that they were covered in statues of dragons, in place of gargoyles. Dany felt something swell something within her chest at the sight of something that had been built by, and had belonged to, her family. After living her whole childhood moving from place to place, at the mercy of people’s generosity, it made Dany joyous that she might finally have a place that could be hers.

Soon after, the fleet docked a little offshore and they made their way towards the island, where a large number of its occupants had gathered, curious to see who had arrived.

Dany took her first step on land for several weeks and stumbled slightly. She felt Yara support her and stopped her falling.

“It takes a while to get used to,” she said, chuckling slightly.

Dany straightened up and looked around at the assembled people. They were of all ages, from several young children hiding behind their mother’s skirts to old men huddled over their canes. They all seemed to be smallfolk, with Dany recognising that several were dressed as fisherman and one with a large, bloodied butcher’s apron.

“Greeting to you all,” said Dany loudly. She saw many people stand up a little higher, with worried looks on their face. Undeterred, Dany continued. “My name is Daenerys Targaryen and I have returned home to reclaim my family’s throne from the Usurper.”

An excited ripple went through the crowd at her words and many people’s expressions turned from worry to excitement and wonder. Dany felt a smile spread across her face. These people seemed genuinely pleased to see her.

From the crowd an old man stepped forward. He shuffled slowly, grasping his cane firmly. When he reached her, he came to a stop and bowed his head to her.

“I apologise, my lady,” he said croakily. “My old knees don’t allow me to bend down much anymore. My name is Mikken. May ask you a question, my lady?”

Dany nodded at him encouragingly, smiling widely.

“Would you happen to related to Rhaegar?”

“Yes, he was my brother,” said Dany excitedly. “Did you know him?”

“Yes indeed, my lady” he replied, nodding furiously. “I was his cook when he lived here with his wife, Elia. He was a great man. He always talked to me as an equal, not a servant. He always remembered what I had told him about my family, including the name days of my children. Rhaegar even offered to take my eldest son, Robert, as a squire when he reached the appropriate age.”

“I would love to meet him,” said Dany brightly. She was overjoyed at meeting someone who had known Rhaegar. Viserys had told her stories about their brother but, having spoken to Ser Barristan, she knew that very few had any truth to them.

To her horror, Mikken’s smile vanished from his face, to be replaced by a look of deepest sorrow.

“H-he died, my lady,” said the old man, shakily. “He caught the pox a year after Rhaegar’s defeat at the Trident.”

Dany’s heart went out to the man. She could see that it still pained him as clearly today as it had the day it happened. She made her way towards him and took one of his hands in hers.

“I’m truly sorry, friend,” said Dany solemnly, as she looked him in his tear-filled eyes. “I too lost my son. I never even got to know him, he had already died when he was born. There is no worst feeling.”

This wasn’t the full story of Rhaego’s death but Dany thought it would be less complicated than explaining the full account of Mirri Maz Duur’s betrayal and trickery, which no one would likely have believed.

Dany felt him give her hands a squeeze and a small smile crossed his face, as if he had finally met someone who understood his grief.

Suddenly there was a loud screech from above them, followed by two more. Dany looked up to see her three children circling lower and lower, looking for a place to land. Screams came from the assembled onlookers as they pointed and cowered from the sight of three large dragons swooping down on them. Dany remembered immediately that while she, and all those who travelled with her, had grown accustomed to this sight, the people of the Seven Kingdoms still thought of dragons as stories.

Dany took a step towards the onlookers and raised her hands.

“Don’t panic, friends,” she said loudly, raising her voice over the screams of both dragons and people alike. “These are _my_ dragons. They will not harm you.”

At her words, the people collectively turned to look at her, with fear and wonderment on every face in equal measure. Dany felt the ground shake slightly three times in quick succession at they all landed behind her.

Dany walked toward Drogon and patted his black scaled nose.

“This is Drogon,” explained Dany to the crowd. “He is named for my late husband. And these,” she continued as she moved to stand between the two smaller dragons and patted their green and cream coloured hides, “are named Rhaegal and Viserion, after my two brothers. I know they look fearsome, and that dragons are told to you as creatures long dead, but they will not harm you. I will command it.”

Dany moved again, to stand facing her three children. They all fixed her with their eyes, coloured red, bronze and golden, and waited for her to speak. She had no idea if this would work. Tyrion had told her that dragons were regarded as smarter than men by many learned maesters but, in her experience, they often did as they pleased. She decided that she must try.

“ _Drogon. Rhaegal. Viserion.”_ Dany began, as she switched effortlessly into Valyrian. “ _These people are our friends, my subjects. You will not harm them. Do you understand? If you hunger, you will hunt over the sea for your food. These people, and their animals, are to remained untouched.”_

Dany stood for a moment, expecting a reaction. While she had been speaking, Viserion and Rhaegal had both cocked their heads to one side, and Dany was reminded of a dog listening to his master. For a moment, there was no reaction from any of them and Dany was wondering if they had even understood her or if they were merely ignoring her words.

Finally, Rhaegal gave a small roar and took flight once more, followed quickly by Viserion. Dany watched them as they rose higher and directed themselves over the sea. Dany heart soared.

 _They did understand me,_ she thought triumphantly.

She turned to Drogon, who fixed her with his fiery gaze, and Dany’s relief and happiness ebbed away. He had always been the unruliest of her three children and Dany wondered if that would continue now. For a few long moments, he stared at her, before he let out a small growl and lowered his head towards his mother.

Dany’s relief returned as she reached out and stroked his warm scales. His eyes closed contentedly at her touch and he stayed in place for a few moments before raising his head once more. He spread his large, black wings, which were now a similar length to Yara’s command ship, from hull to bow, and took off after his brothers. After a moment, all Dany could see were their small outlines in the distance, diving and swirling around each other.

With a smile on her face, she turned back to the surrounding crowd, who had gotten over their initial fear and apprehension and were watching the far-off dragons with looks of awe. Dany’s smile grew as she addressed them.

“I have instructed the three of them to leave you all untouched,” said Dany calmly. All eyes returned to her and she returned their collective gaze with her own. “If they _do_ harm any of your livestock or damage your property, then please inform me of it and I will make sure you are appropriately compensated.”

As a round of murmured approval spread through the crowd, a young man in brown robes walked towards her. As he grew closer, Dany saw that he had a long chain around his neck, made of links of different metals.

 _This must be a maester_ , thought Dany.

He stood in front of her and bend down on one knee, bowing his head in deference.

“Your Grace, it is an honour to meet you,” said the man, as he raised his head again to meet her eye. “My name is Pylos and I am the maester of Dragonstone. I offer you my assistance and counsel, to be used at your discretion.”

Dany looked at the man suspiciously.

“How long have you been the maester here, Pylos?”

“I have been on Dragonstone for several years, Your Grace. I took over the position of maester after the death of my predecessor, Cressen.”

“Several years, you say?” Tyrion interjected from Dany’s right. “So, you served under Stannis Baratheon?”

“Yes, my lord.” Pylos replied, nodding. “However, Lord Stannis made his way north a while ago, and I have since learned that he has been slain.”

Dany remembered that, shortly after Varys had joined them with the navies of both the Martells and the Tyrells, he had pulled her into the war room to inform her of the death of Stannis Baratheon at the hands of the new Wardens of the North, House Bolton.        

“You served Stannis?” Dany inquired, her suspicions heightening. “Why would you pledge yourself to me?”

As if sensing her reservations, Varys leaned in and spoke in a carrying whisper to her.

“Maesters are assigned to keeps by the Citadel, Your Grace, and serve the current inhabitants. They serve the people of Westeros and, like the Night’s Watch, are politically neutral.”

Pylos nodded appreciatively at Varys’ words.

“Your advisor is very knowledgeable, Your Grace. And it is all quite true. I served Stannis as he was the occupant of this castle. Now it is yours and so is my knowledge and advice, if you would have it, of course.”

Dany exhaled deeply, her tension and suspicion lessening. After what had happened in Meereen with the Sons of the Harpy, she was fearful of a similar occurrence here and was grateful that Varys was here to inform her otherwise.

“Very well, Pylos,” said Dany, her smile returning. “Would you please show me the island? I would like to see more of my birthplace.”

“At once, Your Grace,” the young maester replied, bowing deeply.

Dany turned to Yara, Grey Worm and Barbarro.

“Get your men settled in, Grey Worm and Barbarro, and your patrols set up, Yara. I will meet you in the castle after I have finished with maester Pylos. Tyrion, Varys and Missandei, I would like you all to join me.”

As they all went off to fulfil her orders, Dany turned back to Mikken, who was looking at her with a puzzled look on his face.

“Daenerys,” he said, clearly deep in thought. “Daenerys. Daen-”

At this he started, straightening up slightly and his expression changed to one of triumph and understanding.

“I knew I remembered that name from somewhere, but my memory isn’t what it was. You were born here, weren’t you, my Queen? And smuggled away before the Baratheon forces could reach you?”

“Yes,” said Dany, slightly baffled at his enthusiasm.

“I knew it,” he said joyously. “Then allow me to be among the first to say this to you. Welcome home, my Queen.”

As Dany walked past him, to follow Pylos, she reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. She smiled at him and nodded appreciatively.

“Please come and see me when we are all settled in, Mikken,” she said warmly. “I would love to hear some more of your stories about my brother.”

The man bowed his head once more and Dany moved on, falling into step alongside Pylos. The crowd of people parted to allow them through. As she passed she saw many of them bow their heads and murmur ‘Your Grace’ in her direction.

Pylos walked her through the midst of the small fishing village they had landed near and Dany saw many more people poking their heads out of their doors or windows to get a better look at her as she passed. Dany tried to be as warm as possible with those who approached her, so as not to give them a poor first impression of her and, to her relief, it seemed to work.

 “Would you like to see the dragonglass, my Queen?” Pylos asked warmly, as he turned to her.

“Dragonglass? What is that?”

“It is also known as obsidian. There are vast caverns beneath Dragonstone, caused by the now inactive volcano in the midst of the island, and there is a large amount of it down there. Would you like to see?”

Dany nodded her approval and followed as Pylos led them down a winding path to a large opening below the keep. As she entered, she heard Tyrion let out a low whistle. She was too mesmerised to make a sound.

Dany saw veins of green weaving its way through the stark rock walls, causing the light from the opening to dance across the ceiling, in a variety of colours. She reached out and ran her fingertips over the glass. It was cold and smooth to the touch. Dany cast her eyes around the tunnel and saw similar veins running through both the walls and the ceiling. She could see that the thickness could vary from the width of a man’s bicep to hardly wider than a fingernail.

“This is incredible,” said Missandei, her voice hushed in wonder. Dany turned and saw that her eyes were wide, trying to take in as much as she could of the sight.

Pylos chuckled softly.

“If you are impressed by this, just think that this is but one tunnel. There are numerous others, among dozens of caverns full of obsidian. Would you like to see one?”

Dany nodded and Pylos ducked back out of the entrance for a moment. He returned with a lit torch, which threw its flickering light around the space, causing the glass to reflect it all around them. He led them down the tunnel, with them all falling into step single file behind him.

Even in the short walk to the cavern, the smoke from the torch, in the enclosed space, was causing Dany’s eyes to water. She was relieved when the tunnel opened out into a large space. She guessed it was about fifteen foot across at its widest point and she could see several other entrances spaced around the outside.

Like the tunnel, the walls and ceiling were lined with various different veins of obsidian that cross-crossed and intersected with each other every few feet. However, the main difference in here were the large formations that rose and fell from the floor and ceiling. The stalagmites and stalactites were made of pure obsidian.

“This is amazing,” said Dany, as she placed her hand on one of the large mounds of dragonglass. “What is it used for?”

“It is mainly used for jewellery and decoration, Your Grace,” replied Pylos, as he moved the torch in a large arc so as to illuminate as much of the cavern as possible. “It is quite brittle so the miners have to be very careful while excavating it. I have always thought that there must be some other use for it but I cannot fathom exactly what.”

With that, the group headed back for the surface and made their way towards the keep. As they walked towards it, Dany looked up and was filled with a sense of both appreciation and foreboding.

As Pylos led them thought the various halls and rooms of the keep, Dany realised that, even if she hadn’t known that her ancestors had built this castle, she could have guessed it from the sheer number of dragon-related items in the castle. Many of the rooms, especially the Great Hall, were built in the shape of dragons. There were also many tapestries and carvings that depicted dragons that adorned many of the walls.

They soon came to a large set of doors, which reminded Dany of the various different cathedrals that she had seen during her travels.

“Is this where you worship?” Dany asked, as she made to enter. She was surprised when the door was locked tight.

“It was,” replied Pylos, with a sad look. “Lord Stannis ordered the idols of the Seven to be burnt when he took up the religion of R’hollor on the suggestion of his red priestess, Melisandre.”

Dany noticed a concerned look pass between Tyrion and Varys, but she was far more curious in Pylos’ explanation of what had happened to inquire further.

“I imagine that the people of Dragonstone didn’t like being told that they must give up the religion that they had followed their whole life.”

“Many did not, Your Grace,” Pylos admitted solemnly. “However, Stannis considered it disobedience when many people didn’t follow his command to disregard the Seven and begin to worship the Lord of Light. Any who didn’t convert were burnt alive.”

 “He burnt them?” Dany asked, aghast.

“As sacrifices to R’hollor, as punishment for their sins.”

Dany couldn’t miss the note of distaste in Pylos’ voice. He may be sworn to serve the inhabitant of Dragonstone but he was still a man, with his own morals and opinions, and Dany could tell that Stannis’ actions disgusted him.

Dany was more than a little unsettled by this information, as it made her consider some of the harsh actions she had taken against those who had crossed her. She recalled when she had crucified a hundred and sixty-three of the Masters of Meereen in retaliation for their similar actions against slaves to intimidate her. Dany also remembered when, in her grief-fuelled rage after the death of Ser Barristan Selmy, she had fed two of the leaders of Meereen’s Great Houses to Rhaegal and Viserion. She had later regretted these actions but she couldn’t ignore the acts themselves, or the motivations behind them.

Dany saw the look of distaste on Pylos’ face and wondered if the men who had served her father had worn a similar look at the thought of him killing and torturing his subjects. Dany was determined to not have to see the same look on any of her subjects when they looked at her.

 _I will not become my father,_ thought Dany resolutely.

Despite this reminder of the somewhat distasteful history of this keep, Dany rather enjoyed being shown around. Every inch of every corridor and room had something of interest, from ornate decorations to expansive carved murals depicting various important events of Westerosi history. The largest of which, Dany was pleased to see, depicted Aegon the Conqueror’s successful invasion of the Seven Kingdoms. Dany could see in various places that it had been defaced, with many examples of the Targaryen sigil being crudely slashed at, as if by a drunk man swinging wildly.

 _The Usurper’s doing, no doubt,_ thought Dany furiously _. He was equally known for being a drunk as his hatred for my family._

The most impressive room by far was the Chamber of the Painted Table, high at the top of the Stone Drum, as Pylos had called it. It was an enormous room but that was not what drew Dany’s attention. In the middle of the room was a large table, that stretched the near length of the room and was covered in a large, detailed map of Westeros. It was still littered with various notes and statues showing various troop positions that she supposed that Stannis had left behind when he had left.

Her eyes were drawn to the large throne next to the table that was, she quickly realised, in the exact place that Dragonstone lied in relation to the rest of Westeros. She sat herself upon it and looked down upon the table, wondering how many of her ancestors had sat where she was at this moment.

As if reading her thoughts, Pylos approached her.

“Your ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror, used the Painted Table when he planned his invasion of Westeros, Your Grace.”

Dany had heard many stories about Aegon. How he had conquered six of the Seven Kingdoms with his army and dragons. Dany couldn’t determine whether or not it was fate that saw her here, in the same spot, three hundred years later, with similar means at her disposal to try to accomplish a similar feat.

The door opened and Grey Worm, Barbarro and Yara entered. All three regarded the room with a look of amazement on their faces as they moved into position around the table. Grey Worm moved to stand next to Missandei, Barbarro stood in the centre with a look of bemusement as he tried to make sense of the inscriptions on the table and Yara move straight to the part that represented that Iron Islands, with a wistful look on her face.

“So, my Queen,” said Pylos. “What do you think of Dragonstone?”

“It is impressive,” said Dany appreciatively. “Very impressive.”

“I agree,” said Tyrion as he seated himself at the table. “I had heard many tales about the keep of Dragonstone while growing up. I must say that it lives up to such stories.”

There was silence for a moment as everyone looked down at the table between them, as if they were all contemplating the massive undertaking that they had yet to start. Dany was eager to begin.

“So,” she said, as she sat herself higher in the throne. “How shall we begin?”

“Your Grace, if I may make a suggestion?” Varys asked, hesitantly.

“Go on, Lord Varys.”

“I would suggest that we begin any strategy meetings on the morrow. I am still expecting several messages from my little birds and I would prefer to give you my full knowledge rather than speculation.”

Dany considered his words for a moment before nodding.

“Wise words, Lord Varys,” she said, as she rose from the throne. “I think we would all benefit from a night’s rest. It would also give Lord Tyrion a chance to sleep off the wine he has drunk.”

“Who, me, Your Grace?” Tyrion said, with a mischievous smile on his face. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Dany smiled and turned to the others.

“Are all the preparations made?”

“Unsullied are in their camp, Queen Daenerys,” said Grey Worm.

“Dothraki too, _khaleesi_ ,” grunted Barbarro.

Dany turned to Yara, who was still obsessing over the Iron Islands on the Painted Table. It was a moment before she registered the silence and looked up, meeting Dany’s eye. There was a sadness and desperation in her eyes for a moment before she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them, any emotion was gone, replaced by the efficient commander that Dany had seen earlier that day.

“We have set up patrols around Dragonstone, my Queen,” said Yara, as she moved closer to the large door that led to the balcony. “If my uncle shows up, we will know.”

“Very well,” said Dany, as she headed for the door. “I think we should eat and then rest for the evening.”

Two hours later, Dany was standing in the lord’s chamber. It was a spacious, high ceilinged room, with a large balcony that overlooked the island. There was further dragon decoration in here, with the headboard of the large bed carved into the shape of a dragon with its wings spread. Evidently, there were a few servants still in the keep, as there was fresh linen on the bed and a banner bearing the sigil of House Targaryen had taken pride of place on the wall above the roaring fireplace, again in the shape of a dragon’s mouth. Dany had lost count at the amount of dragon themed decoration that she had seen throughout the castle.

Dany smirked a little at it as she crossed the room and stepped onto the balcony and overlooked her army. There were tiny little pinpricks of light of their camp fires all throughout the two camps, which were at either end of the island, which shone out extra bright in the darkness. Sounds of raucous celebration reached her ears from the Dothraki camp, despite it being the furthest from the keep and her being at the highest point of it.

Dany fixed her eyes towards the sea, looking for any sign of her children, even while knowing that she would have little luck in such poor light. She wasn’t worried, they had all been gone longer than this before, but she was always comforted by the sight of them.

 _It seems that they have listened to me so far,_ Dany thought. _I hope they will continue to do so._

Dany leaned her forearms on the railing and shivered as the chill night air whistled around her. She had noticed the difference in climate very quickly upon arrival. She had spent her whole life in Essos where it was never very cold, even in winter, so she had acclimatised to warm weather. She knew she would have to do the same here too, as Tyrion had warned her that winter was only just beginning and the maesters at the Citadel had warned that this would be a long winter, maybe one of the longest in living memory.

She remained on the balcony for a while, staring out over the sea towards the rest of Westeros, lost in thoughts about what the future would hold, before the chill got the best of her and she retreated back into the warmth of her chambers.

*

The following morning, after she had bathed, dressed and eaten, Dany made her way to the Chamber of the Painted Table, with Missandei and Tyrion. As she entered and made her way to the throne, she saw that it was prepared for their meeting. She saw various statues that she knew represented the various houses of Westeros. She saw the Stark wolf, the Lannister lion, the Tully fish and the Arryn falcon. There were various others, however, that she couldn’t yet place from memory.

She seated herself and waited for the others to arrive. Before long they too made their way in, with Yara being the last to arrive.

Pylos took a seat next to her throne. She was willing to give him a chance to offer his advice.

“So,” said Tyrion, as he moved his chair closer to the table. “Are we all ready to begin?”

“Do you have all the information that you need, Lord Varys?” Dany asked, turning to see the large stack of letters in front of him.

“I do, my Queen,” he replied, as he picked up the top piece of parchment. “My little birds have been sending me their messages all night.”

“Very well. What news is there from Westeros?”

“There are two major developments, Your Grace. From King’s Landing and from the North. Which would you rather hear first?

“News from the capital, I think,” replied Dany.

“Yes,” muttered Tyrion darkly, as he stared into the depths of his wine goblet. “Let’s hear what has happened to my family.”

At his words, Dany could see that Varys gave Tyrion an odd furtive look.

“Cersei Lannister rules in King’s Landing,” Varys began slowly, deliberately avoiding Tyrion’s shocked look. “After the death of Tommen Baratheon.”

There was a moment of silence at his words. Dany looked at Tyrion and she saw that he was opening and closing his mouth slightly, as if trying to find his voice again.

“How?” he spluttered finally, and Dany could tell from his voice that he was struggling to control his grief at the loss of his nephew.

“My birds say that he killed himself,” replied Varys gently, leaning towards his friend. “He jumped from a window in the Red Keep.”

“Why would he do such a thing?” Missandei asked, quietly. Dany turned to her and saw that she was watching Tyrion’s grief with a sympathetic and sad expression on her face.

“There was an explosion that levelled the Sept of Baelor. It is believed to be one of Aerys’ wildfire caches. Margaery Tyrell, Tommen’s wife, was caught in the explosion. He was said to be besotted with her and her death crushed him.”

Dany looked at Tyrion. He was staring at the table in front of him, unwilling to meet anyone’s eye. She got to her feet and walked towards him. When she reached him, Dany stooped down slightly so she was on eye level with him and put a comforting hand on his small shoulder.

He looked up at her touch and met her eyes. Dany could see his eyes shining with sorrow and gave him a sympathetic smile. Tyrion bowed his head once more and Dany turned back to the group, as Pylos spoke to Varys.

“Is this why the Tyrells have sided with Her Grace?”

“Yes,” he replied, with another look at Tyrion, as though waiting for a response. “They suspect that Cersei was behind the explosion.”

At this, Tyrion jolted upright suddenly, causing Dany to back away in surprise. She was shocked at the look of fury etched on his face.

“ _She_ destroyed the Sept?” he demanded furiously.

When Varys nodded, Tyrion reached out and seized one on the Lannister lions from the table. He sat there for a minute, glaring at it, before throwing against the far wall with all his strength.

“That fucking vile witch,” fumed Tyrion, as he turned to Varys. “Do you know _why_ she would do such a thing?”

“The High Sparrow,” Varys replied, calmly. “He was a religious fanatic, the leader of group called the Sparrows, that Cersei raised up to High Septon. She tried to get him on her side by reforming the Faith Militant but he turned on her and she was imprisoned.”

“I remember learning about them at the Citadel, Your Grace,” said Pylos. “The Faith Militant were disbanded two hundred and fifty years ago, when your ancestor, Jaehaerys I, negotiated their disarmament with the Faith.”

“Deluded bitch,” muttered Tyrion heatedly, oblivious to Pylos’ words. “She always thought that all she has to do is flash her tits and pretty face at someone and they will follow her every command.”

“If she was imprisoned,” said Dany, as she re-seated herself on the throne. “Then how did she manage to destroy the Sept of Baelor with wildfire?”

“Apparently, she repented her sins. She was allowed to return to the Red Keep, after she had performed the Walk of Atonement.”

“What is that, Lord Varys?” Missandei asked curiously.

“In Cersei’s case, she was forced to walk from the Sept of Baelor to the Red Keep, while naked. It is a sizeable distance and the streets were packed with a baying mob that followed her all the way.”

Ignoring Tyrion’s bark of laughter at his sister’s ordeal, Dany addressed Varys.

“A religious organisation did this?” She asked, confused. “It doesn’t seem like a very virtuous thing to do.”

“I _did_ say that they were fanatics, Your Grace,” reminded Varys.

“So,” said Tyrion, the laughter dying and being replaced by cold fury once more. “She returned to the Red Keep and planned her revenge upon the Sparrow.”

“Yes. She was supposed to be at the Sept of Baelor for her trial but she didn’t arrive. Then the Sept exploded, killing all inside. Including Margaery, Loras Tyrell and your uncle Kevan.”

Tyrion winced slightly at the bluntness of Varys’ words but his grief was not the same as it had been for his nephew.

 _He must have thought a lot of Tommen,_ pondered Dany sadly.

“So,” he said, with his anger present in every word. “My sister killed everyone in the Sept, including our uncle, and in doing so she caused her son to kill himself after he learned about the death of his wife. And then she decides that she might as well help herself to the fucking Iron Throne!”

Tyrion looked down at his hands, as he flexed his fingers upon the table top.

“I can’t wait to kill her.”

Dany shared a shocked look with Missandei and Grey Worm. She knew that Tyrion hated many members of his family and had killed his father, but she had never heard him express such vehemence and longing to kill his sibling. Having heard what little she had about the Lannisters, however, Dany knew that they probably deserved it.

“So,” Dany said loudly, desperately trying to distract Tyrion from his murderous thoughts. “What do the people think of their new Queen?”

“They despise her,” said Vary quickly, picking up on Dany’s intentions. “She rules over them with an iron fist. There is a constant presence of Lannister guards throughout the city, ready to stamp out any dissent.”

“Who advises her?”, asked Tyrion, as he finally raised his eyes from his coiled fingers.

“Her council is comprised of only Jaime Lannister and Qyburn.”

“Who is Qyburn?” Dany asked.

“A disgraced former maester of the Citadel, Your Grace.” Varys replied with a look of utmost distaste and, unless Dany was seeing wrong, loathing on his face

“I heard stories of him while I was at the Citadel, my Queen,” injected Pylos. “He was thrown out for performing experiments that the Archmaesters had deemed illegal.”

Dany shook her head in disbelief.

 _A disgraced maester and a kingslayer,_ thought Dany. _That is truly the council of a madwoman._

“How big her army,” grunted Barbarro.

“The Lannisters have the largest standing army of any House in the Seven Kingdoms,” replied Varys, as he shuffled through his pile to find the letter he needed. “Even after their losses in the War, they can call well over a hundred thousand men to their banners alone. Cavalry, infantry, archers and siege machinery. They have a great amount of resources to their name.

“In addition to that, the houses of the Westerlands and the Stormlands have pledged their allegiance to the crown, which adds well over seventy thousand more to their forces. However, the loyalty of the houses of the Stormlands is questionable.”

“How so?”, inquired Missandei, confused. “I thought you said they had pledged her their loyalty.”

“Quite so, my lady,” he replied, bowing his head in her direction. “However, their loyalty is based on her marriage to their former liege lord, Robert Baratheon, and her being the mother to the last two Baratheon kings. With Tommen’s death, however, House Baratheon is on the verge of collapse.”

Dany glanced at Tyrion out of the corner of her eye. He was too busy draining his wine goblet once more to notice her gaze.

“So, they have a large, well maintained and well provisioned army that they can call upon and they currently have the throne,” Dany stated, as she reached out and took one of the Lannister lions on the table to place it on the drawing of King’s Landing. “Is there anything else we should know.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” replied Varys, as he withdrew another sheaf of parchment from the pile in front of him. “It appears that Cersei has reached an alliance with Euron Greyjoy.”

Yara had spent much of the previous conversation gazing distractedly around the room while steadily depleting the jug of wine in front of her. At Varys’ words, however, she bolted upright, slopping wine down her front in her haste.

“From what I understand,” he continued, ignoring Yara’s spluttering and frantic attempts to clean the front of her clothes, “their agreement is that Euron helps destroy Cersei’s enemies and in return he can remain the King of the Iron Islands.”

“Fucking hell,” muttered Yara. “Just when it couldn’t get any worse, it does.”

Dany sighed and couldn’t help agreeing with Yara. This alliance meant that her enemies now roughly equalled her forces on both land and sea, which was not something Dany was comfortable with.

“What about the North?” she said, as she massaged her temples with her fingertips. “Please tell me that there is better news there.”

“Unclear at the moment, Your Grace,” Varys replied hesitantly. “After Stannis’ defeat, the Bolton’s remained in charge at Winterfell.”

“How was Stannis defeated?” asked Grey Worm. Dany started slightly at his voice as he had been so silent for their discussion so far.

“His men deserted him, when a large storm forced them to camp. They were attacked in the night by Bolton men and most of their horses were killed. So, Stannis resorted to some _extreme_ measures to help him win and his men saw it as a step too far.”

“What did he do?” Pylos asked curiously.

“His daughter, the Princess Shireen. He…”

Varys tailed off and Dany could tell by his expression, with a sinking feeling in her stomach, that something terrible had happened to the poor girl.

“What happened to her?” Pylos repeated uneasily, as he rose to his feet slowly.

“He burnt her alive as a sacrifice to R’hollor, under the advice of his priestess Melisandre.”

An unnatural hush fell in the room, it was almost like no one was breathing. Dany felt her chest constrict and her breathing quicken as she thought about the pain and suffering of that poor child. Pylos slumped back into his seat and put his head in his hands.

 _He must have known her,_ thought Dany, numbly, _while living as her father’s maester._

“ _W-why_?” stammered Missandei, in a pained voice. “ _How_ could someone do that to their own child?”

“Religions make people do strange things,” said Tyrion, wisely. “Even more so when you have a priestess whispering in your ear about how you are the ‘Lord’s Chosen’ and that you must win his favour to ensure your victory.”

“Even so,” said Dany, fighting to control the anger and hatred that had boiled up within her at this knowledge, “burning your own child to gain a throne is unforgivable.”

Another long silence followed her words, with Dany trying to comprehend Stannis’ actions. She couldn’t imagine a situation in which she would consider killing any of her three children, and certainly not for the Iron Throne.

“So,” said Dany, steadily, trying to get the meeting back on track. “Are the Boltons still in control of the North?”

“No, Your Grace,” said Varys, as he sat up a little straighter in his chair. “The current ruler is the so-called ‘King in the North’, Jon Snow.”

“What!” Tyrion exclaimed. “Jon is the King? What happened?”

“My little birds tell me that he and his half-sister, Sansa, amassed an army and retook Winterfell from the Boltons. It is said that he himself led the army into battle.”

“That can’t be right”, said Tyrion, as he stroked his beard thoughtfully. “The last time I saw him he was to join the Night’s Watch and, if he had left, I would have heard something, as the Hand of the King, about Eddard Stark’s bastard running around Westeros.”

At the mention of Stark, Dany’s ear pricked up even more. She had heard much about the Usurper’s close friend while growing up, as he had helped take away their family’s throne.

“This is where the stories grow very unusual,” said Varys cryptically.

“Hold on,” interrupted Dany. “If I remember correctly, you told me that the Night’s Watch brothers took a vow that stated that they shall not hold any lands or titles and that the penalty for leaving is death.”

“That is true, my Queen,” said Varys. “However, the vow also says that it lasts until their death. My reports say that Jon Snow, who was the Lord Commander at the time, was mutinied against by his fellow brothers and murdered. He was then resurrected from death by Melisandre, Stannis’ priestess.”

“That woman has a lot to answer for,” muttered Yara darkly.

“Why would they turn against their Lord Commander?” Tyrion demanded angrily.

Dany turned to look at him. He was staring at Varys with a look of curiousness and anger upon his face.

 _How does Tyrion know this Jon Snow?_ Dany wondered, as he studied the look on her Hand’s face

“Apparently, they didn’t agree with his decision to allow the Wildings to come south of the Wall.”

Dany remembered what Tyrion and Varys had briefly told them about the Wall and the duties of the Night’s Watch.

“Why would Jon Snow allow these Wildings, that the men of the Night’s Watch have been fighting for centuries, below the Wall?” Dany asked, baffled.

“That is not exactly clear, Your Grace. However, this act apparently caused his brothers to kill him.”

“It is very unlikely to be true that he was in fact killed and resurrected, Lord Varys,” said Dany, disbelievingly.

“I agree, my Queen. Regardless of the truth, however, the Wilding warriors have joined with Snow. They regard him as a god-like figure, after his supposed resurrection. They formed the bulk of his army, which he reinforced with men from Houses Mormont, Mazin and Hornwood, as well as the Knights of the Vale that his sister Sansa manged to acquire. After the battle was won, the Northern Lords, as well as those from the Vale, bent the knee and declared him the White Wolf and the King in the North.”

Dany sat there, completely amazed. The story was almost unbelievable and yet there was far too much to the story that made sense.

 _If this is true_ , thought Dany, impressed, _then this Jon Snow, the White Wolf, must be a remarkable man._

“What happened to Lord Bolton?” Tyrion asked.

“Jon Snow cornered Ramsay Bolton inside Winterfell, according to my birds, and brutally beat him into the dirt. Later, he was fed to his own hounds by Sansa.”

“Fuck,” said Tyrion, softly.

“That seems… rather sadistic,” said Missandei, with a look of disgust on her face, which Dany couldn’t help but agree with.

“Good,” said Yara, suddenly. “That Bolton bastard was the one who locked up my brother and tortured him into the broken man he is now. Those Starks did the world a favour by killing that piece of shit.”

“I think I have to agree with Yara, my Queen,” said Tyrion, as he raised his goblet in toast to the Ironborn. “Ramsay Bolton, or Snow as he was, was always known to be a rabid maniac who killed and maimed many people. I think that Jon did you a favour by ridding your future kingdom of that monster.”

Dany considered Tyrion’s words, before nodding as she couldn’t really find a fault with his reasoning.

“So, Jon Snow is the king of the North _and_ the Vale?” Dany inquired, as she got up to move closer to the Northern section of the table.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Varys replied, as he too got to his feet to follow her. “However, it could soon be more.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Riverlands are currently in the hands of the Lannisters. However, Edmure Tully, the ‘rightful’ lord of Riverrun, is still alive and their prisoner. If Snow was to free him and give him back his family’s seat, then I suspect that Tully too would bend the knee. There is also the fact that Edmure is Sansa’s uncle, so there is also a family bond between the Starks and Tullys.

“If this happened then Snow would have around a third of the Seven Kingdoms under his control. In my opinion, Your Grace, Jon Snow will either prove to be a very valuable ally or a dangerous enemy.”

Dany stood still for a moment, contemplating Varys’ counsel, staring at the table’s representation of Winterfell. She wondered what kind of man this Snow was. He seemed to be an impressive leader of his men but, at the same time, he was also potentially an oathbreaker, and that was not the kind of ally she wished to have.

“Lord Tyrion,” said Dany finally, as she turned to face her Hand. “You know this man. What were your impressions of him?”

Tyrion drained his goblet and fixed her with a piercing stare.

“I will not claim to know every aspect of the man, Daenerys. I knew him for but a few weeks as we travelled to the Wall from Winterfell, him to join the Night’s Watch and myself to simply see the sight. However, in that brief time I grew to admire him. He is very much like his father, an honourable man.”

“You know my opinions of the Starks, Tyrion,” said Dany, as she turned back to look at Winterfell and picked up one of the Stark wolves. She rolled it in her palm for a moment before continuing. “However, I am willing to discuss terms with him _if_ he bends the knee.”

Dany turned back to address the room.

“Is there anything else, Lord Varys?”

“I don’t think so, Your Grace.”

“Very well,” said Dany, as she turned to the maester. “Pylos, I would like you compose letters to all the lords of Westeros. Command them to come to Dragonstone to bend the knee to the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. In the letters to Cersei Lannister and Jon Snow, I would like you to inform them to renounce their claims to their false titles, or they will not receive any mercy from me.”

Taking this as their cue to leave, her advisors all got up and made their way out and Dany could vaguely hear Tyrion asking Pylos to see his note to Jon before he sent it away. She kept her back to them and walked out onto the balcony.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath of the sea air. She was trying to take in all that she had been told in the last few hours. The longer she thought on it, the more she thought that Varys was right: Jon Snow would either be her close ally or a sworn enemy.

Dany just couldn’t decide which it was more likely to be.

*

A week later, Dany was sat at the throne, staring down at the map once more, flanked by Tyrion and Missandei.

They had received many ravens in the last week in response to her demand for fealty. Many had been flat denials, with many lords telling her that she would meet the same end as her father. However, many more were to announce that their lord or lady would be sailing to Dragonstone, in order to bend the knee to the rightful queen.

“The Houses of Dragonstone have all pledged their fealty to you, my Queen,” Missandei was saying. “Houses Bar Emmon and Sunglass say that their lords will be making their way to Dragonstone as soon as they can.”

“House Celtigar makes a similar promise,” said Tyrion, not looking up from the sheet of parchment in his hands. “They also wish to inform you of their family’s past loyalty to your own, with several of them acting in various position on the councils of Targaryen rulers, as well as your shared Valyrian blood.”

As Dany shook her head in exasperation at Lord Celtigar’s eagerness to impress, the door opened and Varys entered.

“I have urgent news, Your Grace,” he said quickly, as he bowed low when he reached her.

“What does this news involve, Lord Varys?” She asked, her brows creasing in confusion.

“Jon Snow, my Queen.”

Dany sat up a little straighter. A week had passed and there had been no reply from either the Lannister Queen or the King in the North and Dany had begun to wonder if there would even be any response.

“He has sent a raven?”

“No, my Queen. My birds tell me he left Winterfell two days ago, heading to the largest port in the North. I hear that he means to sail here, to meet you.”

Dany sat in silence for a moment, feeling three sets of eyes on her. This was not at all what she had expected. Dany reached out and took the Stark wolf into her hand once again and, making her decision, she turned back to her advisors.

“Very well. Soon we shall see exactly what kind of man this White Wolf is.”

 


	3. Sam I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a shorter chapter this time, sorry about that. Hope you all enjoy it though. Let me know in the comments  
> Next up is Jon. I hope to have it up by the end of the week.

 

Sam

 

Samwell Tarly had fallen into a routine. After he had eaten his evening meal, he would return to his usual table, tucked into a corner and shielded from prying eyes by some bookshelves, and he would read every book he could get his hands on.

He would lose himself in their pages, blocking out the murmured conversations in the library and the scratching of people taking notes. As the hours passed, and the candle flickered lower, he would fill his head with all he could find about the White Walkers, dragonglass and Valyrian steel. Sam knew that Jon had sent him here to become a maester but he saw these things as more important to the coming war than almost anything else he could learn at the Citadel.

Frustratingly, all he had read so far was what he already knew. The White Walkers were talked about as though they were either stories told to frighten children or creatures long dead, killed in the Long Night. Sam had lost count of the times he had shaken his head in exasperation when he had read someone’s scepticism of their existence.

 _None of these people have even seen the Wall,_ Sam would think angrily. _How could they know what lies beyond it?_

It was a similar story with dragonglass and Valyrian steel. He already knew that dragonglass was used by the Children of the Forest. He also knew that the secrets of Valyrian steel’s creation had been lost in the Doom of Valyria. Luckily, Sam had only scratched the surface of the library’s contents.

Sam closed the book he had been reading and rubbed his tired eyes. He looked out of the window above him and, like usual, it was the dead of night. Sam sighed as he rose to his feet to return his books. As he approached the edge of the platform he was on, he looked around him and marvelled, for seemed like the thousandth time, at the Citadel library.

It was located in a large, circular tower and every inch of the walls were covered in books. There were staircases everywhere that allowed access to the many platforms and levels of the library. Sam had never seen so many books or so many stairs. What always caught his attention was the large, revolving model that hung from the ceiling. Sam had spent a good few hours just staring at it, wondering how it worked.

He made his way through the nearly deserted library, returned his books and started the long trek to the sleeping quarters. On the way, he decided to check on Gilly and Little Sam. They had been allowed to stay after Archmaester Willem, an elderly Dornishman with a chain so long that Sam was sure it reached his knees, had an attack of conscience about throwing a mother into the street with her young son. It hadn’t hurt that Little Sam had taken that moment to reach out and grasp hold of the Maester’s chain and begin giggling. Sam had been watching apprehensively but seeing Little Sam’s actions and the look of amusement that had melted the old man’s stony expression, his spirits had soared.

The old man had sighed and relented, giving the two an unused room next to Sam’s quarters. In return for allowing them to stay, Gilly had offered to help out around the Citadel, in the kitchens and helping to carry messages between the various buildings for the maesters. Sam had felt a little guilty that she was working hard while he spent his days with his nose buried in books. However, once word had spread that she was from north of the Wall, rather than being ostracised and avoided, she had spent many hours speaking to various maesters about Wilding culture and history.

As Sam entered the living quarters, he realised how tired he was. Ever since they had arrived, near a month ago, he had spent his days in the library and rarely left until past midnight. He would then be back up with the sun to begin the cycle again.

 _I really should leave the library a little earlier one day_ , Sam thought, as he stifled a yawn.

When he reached Gilly’s door, he strained his eyes for any sounds of movement. When none came, he gave a soft knock, trying not to disturb Little Sam. Again, there was no sound so Sam quietly opened the door and stepped lightly to limit the sounds of his footsteps on the stark stone floor.

It was a small room, with barely enough room for the bed, a small cabinet and the desk underneath a small window, which was pushed open a crack, allowing the night air into the room. Sam saw the candle Gilly had placed onto the cabinet had burned out, dripping its wax onto the wood surface.

Sam looked at the huddled form on the bed and a smile spread across his face. Gilly was lying on her side with Little Sam nestled in her arms, his sleeping face visible above the sheet that covered them both. As Sam moved closer to the bed and pressed a kiss to her forehead, he saw Gilly mumble something and shift Little Sam closer into her embrace.

Sam’s smile grew as he looked down at the sleeping child and brushed his blond hair out of his eyes. He remembered back on the ship to Oldtown, when Gilly had said that Sam was her son’s father. Sam had been too sick to express his feelings at the time, but his heart had swelled with joy and pride at her declaration. Sam had come to adore the little boy, as if he was his own, and hearing Gilly say that she felt the same was more than he had dared hope for.

Sam stood staring at the two for a moment, feeling a tremendous amount of affection for the two of them, before he turned and exited as quietly as he could. He then headed to his room next door and entered an almost identical room.

His eye was drawn to the biggest difference than the room he had just left. Propped in the corner was the large greatsword, Heartsbane. Whenever he looked at the sword he was filled with a sense of guilt. He had stolen his family’s ancestral sword _from_ his family.

While it had seemed such a good idea at the time, he knew that it would probably cause a lot of problems for him down the road. His father wasn’t the most forgiving of people at the best of times, least of all with Sam.

As he looked at the sword, he cast his mind back to their short stay at Horn Hill. He remembered the meal they had all shared, the callous things his father had spat at Gilly, how he had just sat there and let it wash over him. The guilt changed into anger and disgust, at both his father and himself.

 _I was a coward_ , thought Sam bitterly. _I should have defended myself, defended Gilly. But instead I just sat there and let him say those things._

Sam shook his head in disgust at himself. He had thought that his experiences at the Night’s Watch, killing a White Walker and surviving both the attack at the Fist of the First Men and the Battle of the Wall, would have given him some confidence, so he could stand up to his father’s criticism. But as soon as he set foot back in Horn Hill, he had reverted back to the scared boy he had been before he left, constantly awaiting his father wrath at his many perceived disappointments.

As another yawn escaped him, Sam pushed his bitter thoughts from his head and prepared himself for bed. He was determined to give his father little to no thought from now on, as he had to Sam for his entire life.

 _Easier said than done_ , thought Sam, as he rested his head on his pillow. _Especially with his sword as a constant reminder to me._

*

The following morning, after he had broken his fast and spent a few hours looking after Little Sam, Sam settled himself back into his table, with a large stack of books in front of him. He was determined that he would not finish the day empty handed.

However, as the hours passed, and the stack of books began to slowly dwindle, Sam was beginning to worry that it was, once again, a day wasted with nothing to show for it. With a sigh, he heaved over the last book from the pile, a tome on Old Valyria. It was so old that Sam was worried that the leather cover was going to fall apart in his hands.

As he read, he became more and more despondent. While the information in the book was interesting, it held no value in his search. Sam was about to give up as another wasted effort, when he noticed that something had been placed between two of the pages.

As he slid it out, he saw it was a single sheet of parchment, easily as old as the book, that was covered in faded, ornate script. As he moved the paper closer to his face to read, he noticed that it wasn’t written in the Common Tongue. Judging from the book it had been placed in, Sam guessed it was Valyrian.

Sam had to fight the impulse to throw the parchment away from him, his frustration at his lack of luck boiling over. On an impulse San turned the page over and almost shouted out in joy.

“Thank the Gods,” muttered Sam under his breath.

Someone had translated the manuscript into the Common Tongue. Sam read the translation quickly, his eyes widening further the more he read. When he finished, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

It was instructions on how to make Valyrian steel.

Sam couldn’t believe it. With this they had the ability to forge new blades, rather than reworking old ones. As he pulled a piece of parchment towards him and began to make a copy, Sam struggled to contain his excitement. All those days pouring through book after book, page after page of meaningless information were finally worth it. He had finally found something that could make a difference in the war. He had finally made some progress in the task he had set.

As he copied it over, Sam pondered that, while his knowledge of weapon crafting was virtually non-existent, there didn’t seem to be anything here that would seem too far beyond a skilled blacksmith’s ability.

Then he read something that he missed before that spoiled his good mood.

 _All ore must be melted using dragon fire_.

 _Well_ , thought Sam miserably. _That is one of the reasons why no Valyrian blades have been forged in centuries._

Sam put down his quill and put his head in his hands. He had been so close, so close to make all these days with his head stuck in books worthwhile.

Sam was about to put the manuscript back in its hiding place when a memory struck him, of reading a letter to Maester Aemon about his relative Daenerys Targaryen, and _her dragons_. Sam’s excitement returned and he frantically continued copying the rest of the instructions.

While he had seemingly solved the problem, Sam was all too aware that it was far from over. Daenerys might not want to help. She might not even believe in the threat of the White Walkers. But at present, Sam didn’t have a better plan so decided to go for it.

When he had finished his copy, he replaced the manuscript and placed all of his books back where he had found them, before returning to his place. He decided to send a letter to Jon to inform him of his discovery. He hadn’t sent a letter to Jon since his arrival, as he had thrown himself into his research, so he realised it was past time.

Before long Sam was looking at the completed letter. He had tried to make it both concise and slightly vague, in case it fell into curious hands.

_Jon,_

_Sorry it has been so long since we have spoken. We have all made it safely to Oldtown after stopping in Horn Hill to see my family. It went as well as could be expected._

_While I was searching the library here, I found something interesting. I found an old Valyrian manuscript that says how to make more swords like Longclaw. The only problem is that we will need help from Maester Aemon’s relative, Daenerys, but I am sure you can work something out._

_I hope that things are well where you are and that Thorne isn’t causing you too much trouble._

_Your friend,_

_Sam._

Sam got up and made his way down to ground level, to find a raven to send the letter to Castle Black. As he exited the library however, Sam was too engrossed in his thoughts to realise that someone was calling his name.

“Samwell!” Archmaester Willem called loudly, for the fourth time.

Sam, finally shaking from his reverie, turned towards the old maester. He saw that the Dornishman was wearing a look of bemusement.

“Sorry, maester,” said Sam, bowing his head respectfully. “I was lost in my thoughts.”

“Ah,” Willem replied, nodding his head in understanding. “A common occurrence in this place. What has captured your attention so much, Samwell?”

“I found something in one of the old books, Maester. Something that I think that my friend, the Lord Commander, would be interested in.”

“I hope you aren’t planning to send whatever you have found by raven, Samwell?” asked Willem, with a stern expression on his face.

“No, maester,” replied Sam humbly. “I have written out a copy of it and plan to send that once I know it is safe to do so.”

“Very wise, Samwell. Off you go to the Ravenry then. Good luck to you, young man.”

“Thank you, maester,” said Sam, as he turned and continued on his way.

The Ravenry was located on the Isle of Ravens, a small isle that was connected to the bank by a wooden drawbridge. The Ravenry was the oldest building in the Citadel, with many stories surrounding its history. One of the most common was that it had been a pirate lord’s stronghold, praying on passing ships. Regardless of its age, Sam thought it was an impressive sight, with its walls covered in moss and vines and the large weirwood tree in its yard.

Once his letter had been sent away, Sam returned to the courtyard. As he walked through, savouring the fresh air, he turned towards the gates, with their flanking sphinxes, and saw an unusual sight.

Travellers were a common sight at the Citadel. Many were either here to join the Order or had a letter that they need to hire a scribe to either read to them or write for them. What was unusual about this one is that something about him seemed familiar to Sam.

He was a tall, middle aged man with a scruffy beard, who had the confident air and physique of a seasoned warrior. His attire reminded Sam of those he had seen in the North and he had a sword strapped to his hip.

However, there was a familiarity to him that Sam shouldn’t shake. As he watched, the traveller stopped and looked around him, clearly at a loss for where he should go. On an impulse, Sam approached him.

When he was close, the man still had his back to him so Sam reached out to touch his left arm to get his attention. Before he could get close, however, the man whipped his arm away from Sam, like he had been burned, and looked at him accusingly.

“I’m sorry,” said Sam hastily, holding his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

At his words, the man relaxed, still massaging his forearm.

“You didn’t startle me,” the man said in a Northern accent. “I’m just a little tense of late.”

“Well, I’m Sam. Samwell Tarly.”

“Where are you from Sam?” asked the stranger, as he resumed his examination of the courtyard.

“Well, Horn Hill originally. But I came here from the Night’s Watch.”

The stranger’s head whipped back around to stare at Sam, with a look of surprise on his face.

“How long have you been with the Night’s Watch?” the stranger asked, giving Sam his undivided attention now.

“A few years now.”

“Then you will have known my father. I believe he was your Lord Commander.”

Sam stood there for a second trying to process his words, before realisation hit him like a hammer.

“C-commander Mormont,” Sam croaked. “He was your father?”

“Aye,” the man replied, nodding. “My name is Jorah Mormont. Good to meet you, Sam.”

He held out his right hand for Sam to shake and Sam took it, wondering if he had heard about his father.

“Do… do you know what happened?” Sam asked hesitantly.

Jorah nodded sadly, as he released Sam’s hand. He stared at something over Sam’s head for a nearly a full minute, with a glazed look to his eyes.

“I heard he was betrayed by his own men,” he said finally, with grief and anger in his voice. “Is that true?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” said Sam, cautiously. “I was there when it happened. Your father was a good man, Jorah. He didn’t deserve what those traitors did.”

Jorah nodded at him for a moment, then grew even more solemn.

“What happened, Sam?” Jorah asked. “How did my father die?”

“Are you sure you want to know?” Sam replied reluctantly. He had no wish to add any further to the man’s grief at the loss of his father.

“Please, Sam,” Jorah pleaded, gripping Sam’s shoulder firmly. “I _need_ to know.”

Sam sighed deeply, thinking hard for a moment, before nodding.

“All right,” said Sam, as he rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “Let’s get you something to eat, you have clearly been travelling for some time, and I will tell you everything you want to know.”

*

An hour later, Sam sat in the mess hall opposite Jorah Mormont. The Northerner had clearly not eaten a proper meal in some time. He had grabbed a little of everything on offer and piled it high on his plate. He had pork, chicken, a whole loaf of bread and a large, steaming bowl of something that Sam guessed was supposed to be some kind of broth.

Sam, on the other hand, had a more generous helping but he was picking at it without much enthusiasm. He was dreading telling Jorah about the circumstances of his father’s death. Not that Jorah didn’t deserve the truth, but that Sam wasn’t so keen on being the one to tell him.

Sam shook himself mentally.

 _Stop being such a coward_ , Sam chastised himself angrily. _You owe this man the truth. You would want the same if you were in his position._

“So, Sam,” said Jorah, as he took a swig from the large tankard of ale in front of him. “Now we have our food, I would like to begin.”

Sam took a deep breath and looked at the man opposite him. He noted dimly that he was sitting with his left arm tucked close to his body. Ever since he had arrived Jorah had been very careful to not let anyone near his left side, even accidently. Sam couldn’t help but wonder what the problem was.

 _Don’t get distracted_ , he thought. _Focus!_

“Well to explain it fully, we will have to go back a way,” began Sam, pushing his plate away. “To explain why we were north of the Wall in the first place.”

Jorah nodded, his brow furrowed in curiosity.

“When me and my friend Jon Snow were taking our vows, his direwolf, Ghost, found a severed arm. We followed him to find two of our brother’s bodies. Othor and Jafer Flowers.”

“Direwolf, huh?” said Jorah, impressed.

“Yeah,” said Sam, smiling at the memory of Ghost, losing his train of thought for a moment. “Last time I saw him he was the size of a small horse. Anyway…”

Sam shook his head, trying to get back on topic.

“That night, before we had a chance to burn them, Othor rose and attacked your father.”

“Wait!” exclaimed Jorah, nearly upsetting his tankard. “I thought you said he was dead!”

“He was. Our maester confirmed it. But he rose all the same. My friend Jon saved your father and managed to destroy it, by setting it on fire.

“Jon said that Othor had glowing blue eye and didn’t feel any pain at all. Jon cut off his arm but he just kept attacking. He was a wight, a reanimated corpse that was revived by the White Walkers.”

As Sam had expected, there was an eerie silence following his words. Before Jorah could express his disbelief, Sam pressed on with his story.

“Your father announced a Great Ranging, over three hundred men would go north of the Wall to meet the threat of the Wildlings and to gather information about the rising dead.”

“I’m sorry, Sam,” said Jorah, holding up a hand. “But that is very hard to believe.”

“I know Jorah. But your father ordered the expedition. He sent Alliser Thorne to King’s Landing to warn them of the threat too. You knew your father better than I did. Would he have done that if he wasn’t sure it was true?” 

Jorah was quiet for a moment, thinking hard. After a moment, he shook his head.

“No. If my father had done something like this, then he would have been certain he was right.”

Jorah went silent again. Sam sighed in relief that he believed him. It would make the rest of the story easier to understand.

“White Walkers, huh? The Long Night was real?”

“Yes,” said Sam, sadly. “Unfortunately, yes. And we think they will march on the Wall before too long.”

Jorah’s eyes widened at him across the table. Sam wasn’t sure if he would believe the story himself if he was in Jorah’s position. Sam watched as he rested his head into the palm of his right hand, shaking his head slightly.

 _For someone who has just heard about the coming of the White Walkers, he is handling the news very well_ , thought Sam.

“So,” Jorah said hoarsely, raising his head. “You all went north.”

“Yes,” said Sam. “We walked for weeks until we reached the Fist of the First Men, the ruins of an ancient fort. We camped there for a few days, waiting for one of the ranging parties to return.

“And then _they_ came.”

Sam raised his head to meet Jorah’s eye and saw horror and realisation dawning on his face.

“The White Walkers, and an army of wights, attacked us. It was a massacre. There were only around sixty survivors.”

Sam paused for a moment, memories flashing in front of his eyes, clear as day. Hearing that third blast of the horn. The White Walker riding past him on its decaying horse, looking at him with its dead eyes. The far-off screams of his brothers as they struggled for their lives against the rabid horde of wights.

“Did you see them?” asked Jorah suddenly, interrupting the flow of memories. “The White Walkers?”

“Yes, I did,” replied Sam quietly.

“What are they like?” asked Jorah in a hushed voice. He sounded both terrified and curious.

“Cold,” said Sam, horrified. “I know it is always cold at the North but… this was different. Every breath you take… it is like ice filling your chest. You can hardly breath or think. It is horrible.”

Sam reached out and raised his tankard to his lips and drained it. He needed something to steel his nerves if he was to get through the rest of the story.

“After the battle,” began Sam again, “we made our way back south, trying to get back to Castle Black. To warn the Seven Kingdoms of the danger that is coming.

“We ran out of food quickly. We were all starving and exhausted, with many wounded, when we arrived back at Craster’s Keep.”

“Where is that?”

“It is the homestead of a wildling that is a little less hostile to us than the others. Craster allowed the rangers of the Night’s Watch to stay under his roof in exchange for us leaving him be.

“However, once we arrived, tensions boiled over. Our wounded were dying all the time. Many of the men were getting angry that, while Craster was giving us bread filled with sawdust, he was getting fat on his hidden food stores. Rast and Karl Tanner began to insult him which only got him angrier.

“Karl then called him a ‘daughter-fucking, wildling bastard’, and killed him.”

“Wait,” interrupted Jorah. “’Daughter-fucking’? Is that true?”

“Yes,” said Sam, angrily. “Any children he had, he would sacrifice the boys to the White Walkers and would marry the girls to give him more children.”

“It sounds like he got what he deserved.”

“I agree,” said Sam angrily. “He was a monster. But Karl then grabbed one of his wives and held a knife to her throat, demanding for her to get the food stores.

“Your father threatened to have him executed and then Rast … he stabbed your father in the back.”

Jorah face went blank for a second, before being covered by a look of pure rage.

“Coward,” he spat. “Wouldn’t dare face my father man to man!”

“No, he wouldn’t,” agreed Sam. “Karl and Rast led the mutiny against those who were still loyal, like my friends Grenn and Edd. Only those two survived and were held prisoner by the remaining mutineers.”

“How did you survive, Sam?” asked Jorah, with a hint of accusation in his voice.

Sam couldn’t help but notice the tone of his voice and squirmed in his seat slightly.

“When the fight started, I slipped away.”

“So, you ran,” accused Jorah.

“Yes,” replied Sam, confidently. “I ran to help Gilly.”

“Who is Gilly?”

“Her”, said Sam, gesturing to her as she helped to serve the many hungry maesters that were in the hall.

Jorah followed gesture and his eyes widened slightly, before he returned his gaze to Sam and raised his eyebrows in anticipation of an explanation.

“She is one of Craster’s daughters. She had just had a son. I wanted to save the boy from being sacrificed to the Walkers. And Gilly… if she had been left there she would have been raped and beaten by the mutineers, like Craster’s other wives. I _had_ to try to save them both.”

“How did you manage?”

“We escaped during the mutiny and headed to the Wall. On the way, we were attacked by a White Walker, who was after the baby, but I killed it with a dragonglass dagger. We managed to make it back to the Wall and I’ve been trying to keep them safe since.”

Sam looked at Jorah and saw his face was a mixture of anger and confusion.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t try to help your father, Jorah,” said Sam, desperately. “I just wanted to help the two of them. I am no warrior, I didn’t think I would make a difference. More importantly, I am a coward.”

“No, Sam,” said Jorah firmly. “You are _not_ a coward.”

Sam looked into the man’s eyes, completely baffled. Jorah leaned in towards him.

“You risked your life in the middle of a mutiny to save a young woman and her child. You then escorted her back to the Wall, saving her once more from a White Walker. Out of all the many things you are Samwell, a coward is not one of them.”

Sam sat there, stunned. He had rarely head those words in his life, and certainly not from a complete stranger. Sam smiled and nodded his head gratefully.

“I have a couple of questions though,” said Jorah, as he settled back into his chair.

“Go ahead.”

“What happened to Longclaw? My father’s… my family’s sword?”

“Lord Commander Mormont gifted it to Jon Snow for saving him from the wight, Othor.”

“Good,” said Jorah, nodding approvingly. “I am glad that someone honourable had it rather than those mutineers.”

“if you don’t mind me asking, Jorah,” said Sam, uncertainly. “Why didn’t you have the sword, if your father was in the Night’s Watch?”

“I disgraced my family,” said Jorah, lowering his eyes to the table in shame. “I dishonoured my father.”

“I know that feeling,” said Sam, nodding in acknowledgement. “Everything I have done has dishonoured my father… according to him anyway.”

“Did you sell people onto slavery, Sam?” Jorah asked, with shame and remorse filling his voice.

“No,” replied Sam, shocking by his honesty.

Jorah lowered his eyes to the table and Sam could see that, while he had committed a grave crime, he was truly remorseful and shamed by what he had done.

“So,” said Sam, trying to change the subject slightly. “What was your next question?”

“What happened to the mutineers?”

“Jon led an expedition to deal with them. They were all killed. From what I heard Jon killed Karl himself and Ghost killed Rast.”

“Then it seems that I owe this Jon Snow a great deal,” said Jorah, impressed.

As Sam nodded his assent, a beat of silence passed between them. Sam didn’t break it for a moment, listening to the surrounding noise of various maesters discussing. Sam decided to voice something that he had been wondering since Jorah’s arrival.

“Why have you come to the Citadel, Jorah?”

Jorah looked at him for a moment before sighing deeply and rolling up his left sleeve. Sam’s eyes widened as he saw the scaly-looking skin that covered his arm to just above his elbow.

“Is that greyscale?” Sam asked, disbelievingly.

“Yes,” replied Jorah shortly. “I was going through the ruins of Old Valyria and was attacked by the Stone Men. Luckily, they only got my arm. I came to see if there is some kind of cure. I have something … someone that I need to get back to.”

Sam heard the note of desperation in his voice and his heart went out to him. He had read about greyscale before. About how those who were infected would slowly lose their mind so they would be sent to the ruins to live their days surrounded by others with the same affliction.

“I’ll help you Jorah,” offered Sam, confidently. “I’ll will look in the library to see if there is anything in there about a cure. In the meantime, there are plenty of maesters here who might be able to help.”

Jorah stared at him for a moment, completely at a loss for words. His face then split into a wide smile. He stood up and offered Sam his right hand to shake. Sam rose to his feet and grasped his hand.

“Thank you, Sam. You’re a good man.”

 

 


	4. Jon II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go guys. Hope you enjoy.  
> Next up is a quick Bran chapter.

 

Jon

 

After two full days of riding, Jon was beginning to get tired of it.

It should have only taken two days at most to reach White Harbour from Winterfell. however, when they had reached the White Knife, and began following the coast, the weather had turned. Bitter winds had come in from the sea, swirling up the heavy snowfall and blowing it directly at them, slowing their progress to a crawl. It was now the morning of their third day and the wind had finally died down enough for them to make a bit more progress.

Other than the weather, the journey had been mostly uneventful. The escort they had taken from Winterfell had not been needed, as the former Bolton men-turned bandits had obviously decided that attacking the King in the North was too much trouble than it was worth. Jon was glad for this, as it gave him more time alone with his thoughts.

Jon had spent a lot of time wondering about Daenerys. What would she be like? Would she accept his proposal for an alliance? Or would she take after her father and burn him alive?

_And the dragons_.

The more Jon thought about them, there was a feeling of excitement and dread in the pit of his stomach. While they were surely creatures to be feared, there was something about them that Jon was fascinated by.

_How did she get them?_ Jon would think to himself. _Where did she get them?_

Jon was shaken from his thoughts by one of the guardsmen riding back from over the crest of the hill in front of them.

“Your Grace,” he said, bowing his head in deference. “White Harbour lies beyond this hill.”

As they reached the top of the hill, Jon saw the city sprawl out before him, with its wide cobbled streets lined with white stone buildings, surrounding its large harbour, filled with ships of all sizes. He saw an old fortress made of crumbling black stone, looking slightly out of place among the houses that surrounded it. Jon knew, from Luwin’s lessons, that this was the Wolf’s Den, built by King Jon Stark to defend against sea raiders, now used as a prison by the Manderlys.

Jon turned his head northwards to see another keep, set high on another hill, which was in stark contrast to the Wolf’s Den, and was made of similar pale stone to the rest of the city. Jon saw the trident-holding merman sigil of House Manderly flying from its towers.

Before long they had reached the gates and Jon saw, with a sigh, that Lord Manderly had assembled what looked like every resident of the city to greet him. As Jon entered, every one of them went down on one knee.

“The King in the North!” came their booming cry, so loud it caused every bird in the city to take to the air.

Jon raised his hand in acknowledgement, feeling very uncomfortable. He climbed down from his saddle and approached Lord Wyman Manderly.

“Your Grace,” said the white-bearded man, still on his knee.

Jon patted him on the shoulder to get his attention then waved his hands, giving everyone permission to rise. When they had, Jon extended his hand to Lord Wyman.

“Thank you for this welcome, Lord Wyman,” said Jon, as they shook hands. “And for preparing a ship for my voyage.”

“I offer you one more thing, Your Grace. I offer you the hospitality of House Manderly for this evening. You are no doubt weary from travelling and I am sure you could use a night’s rest before you set sail.”

Jon considered the man’s words for a moment before nodding. A night’s rest in a comfy bed didn’t sound so bad, as it would also give Jon a chance to make the final preparations for his departure, that he had thought of on his ride from Winterfell. Jon looked around him as he addressed Lord Wyman.

“Thank you, Lord Manderly. That will be much appreciated.”

Any response that Manderly might have given was drowned out by the shouts and scream from those at the front of the crowd. Jon turned to see what was causing such an outbreak of surprise and saw Ghost entering the gate.

He had gone hunting around noon the day before and hadn’t returned, but Jon hadn’t worried. Ghost always found his way back. Jon raised his hand to stroke his fur, while turning to the assembled crowd.

“Don’t panic. This is Ghost, my direwolf. He is well trained. He won’t harm any of you.”

As if sensing his words, Ghost lowered himself onto his haunches and allowed Jon to pet him. Jon saw that while many people were placated by his words, they had obviously heard of the Stark children’s direwolves, many still eyed Ghost with apprehension.

_Well_ , thought Jon. _I suppose a white wolf with red eyes that is the size of a small horse would scare me a little if I wasn’t so used to it_.

“If you will follow me, Your Grace,” said Lord Manderly, beckoning.

Jon, Davos and Tormund, followed by Ghost and their escort, fell into step behind Lord Wyman. As they walked along the wide cobbled streets, many of the people that lined them whispered and pointed, mainly at Ghost and the wild, red-haired form of Tormund. Many other people bowed their head towards Jon and bowed low.

Before long they reached New Castle and Jon turned to look down at White Harbour

“You have an impressive city for your seat, Lord Wyman.”

“I thank you, Your Grace,” he replied proudly, as he too turned to gaze at it. “We stand in a good place, Your Grace. You can see most of the city from here. The Wolf’s Den,” he said, pointing towards it.

“And then there is the Seal Rock,” pointing towards a colossal stone that stood proudly fifty feet above the harbour’s waters. Jon could see an ancient ringfort of worn stones surrounding it.

“We believe that the First Men constructed the ringfort that surrounds it,” said Lord Manderly, following Jon’s gaze.

“Looks like some we saw beyond the Wall,” said Tormund gruffly.

The doors opened behind them and Jon turned to greet the assembled household. Lord Wyman turned to introduce them.

“This is my first-born son, and heir, Wylis and his wife Leona.”

Wylis, a very fat bald man with a large moustache, offered his hand to Jon while Leona, a plump blonde haired woman, curtseyed as best she could.

“Welcome, White Wolf,” said Wylis, shaking Jon’s hand vigorously. “It is an honour to meet you. These are my daughters, Wynafryd and Wylla.”

The two girls both curtseyed to Jon, their cheeks flushing slightly.

“A pleasure to meet you all,” said Jon politely.

Lord Wyman approached Jon once more, and gesturing to two men standing off to the side.

“This is my cousin Ser Marlon, who is the commander of the garrison here.”

“Welcome, King Jon,” said Marlon, offering his hand. “It is good to once more have the Starks in Winterfell.”

Marlon was a tall heavy build man wearing a full set of silver-coloured armour, engraved to look like flowing seaweed.

“Thank you, Ser,” said Jon, smiling. “It is good for us to be home.”

“And this,” said Lord Wyman, directing Jon to the red-faced, plump man wearing a maester’s chain, “is our maester, Theomore.”

The maester shook Jon’s hand briefly, before excusing himself, muttering about ‘unfulfilled duties.’ Jon turned to Lord Wyman, confused.

“Before he became a maester of the Citadel, Theomore was of House Lannister of Lannisport.”

“A Lannister?” asked Davos, stunned. “I bet that doesn’t sit well with many people here.”

“You could say that,” chuckled Wylis, stroking his moustache. “We have to keep him away from important meetings so we don’t give the treacherous little shit any chances to betray us.”

“Wylis!” admonished his wife, cuffing his shoulder. “Not in front of the girls.”

As everyone laughed at Wylis’ beratement, he looked to his daughters and winked, making them stifle their giggles behind their hands. Jon stood there for a moment, chuckling, before he remembered his duties.

“Apologies for my poor manners, my lords and ladies,” said Jon. “Allow me to introduce my companions. Ser Davos of House Seaworth. And Tormund Giantsbane of the Free Folk.”

Any remaining mirth in the room evaporated at Jon’s words, filled by a cold stillness.

“Fucking wildling,” growled Wylis, his moustache twitching in anger.

He took a step towards Tormund, his wife and daughters trying to slow his advance. Tormund, however, merely smiled evilly and maintained the man’s furious glare.

“Well, this ‘fucking wildling’ fought beside _your_ king to get his home back, while you sat here feeding your fat face,” growled Tormund, taking step forward himself.

“Tormund!” shouted Jon, above the ruckus. “Enough!”

Silence broke out at Jon’s anger. He stared back and forth between everyone present.

“Tormund. I know you are still getting used to how things work here, but one of the main things we don’t do is insult the people who have offered us food and shelter for the night.”

Tormund looked at Jon for a moment, before nodding and backing away. Jon then turned to Wylis, whose momentary look of triumph vanished.

“Wylis. I know many in the North hold a grudge against the Free Folk but could you truly say you would act any different if you were them, doing what they can to survive. They are born on the wrong side of the Wall and spend their lives being treated and hunted like animals. Can we expect them to act any different after that?

“If it wasn’t for Tormund and his men, then Winterfell would still be in Bolton hands and I would be dead.”

_Again,_ thought Jon.

“We all need to work together. All houses of the North and the Vale _with_ the Free Folk. If we are divided then we will fall, to either the Lannister Queen or the Night King, whichever comes for us first."

Wylis looked between Jon and Tormund, before lowering his gaze to his feet in shame.

“I apologise, Your Grace,” he said. “I let my feelings get in the way.”

“Apology accepted, my lord,” said Jon firmly. “Now let’s put this behind us.”

Jon turned to Lord Manderly, who was watching with apprehension.

“Lord Wyman, I apologise for causing such a scene, after you have welcomed us into your home as you have.”

“Not at all, my king,” said Lord Manderly, waving away Jon’s apology dismissively. “No need to apologise.

“Now, my servants will show you and your companions to your chambers. Your men will be housed with mine at the garrison for the night. Will Ghost need any special arrangements?”

“Don’t worry yourself, Lord Manderly,” said Jon gratefully. “I will personally tend to Ghost.”

As Lord Manderly nodded and led them into his keep, Jon’s mind wandered back to the argument that had just occurred. Jon knew that, due to the position of White Harbour, the Manderlys hadn’t seen or fought the Wildings for decades. But despite that, they still held the same hatred that many in the North had for the Free Folk.

_How long will it be before people get over their grudges?_ Jon wondered bitterly. _Who was born on what side of the Wall won’t matter when the Night King arrives._

That evening, Lord Manderly held a feast in honour of Jon’s arrival in the Merman’s Court, the main hall. Jon took a seat next to Lord Manderly at the high table on the dais, waving away protests that he should be in the main seat.

Jon looked around the hall. The walls, ceiling and floors were made of wooden planks that were fixed together and which were painted to show various underwater creatures. Jon looked around and saw sharks painted on the walls, below various different ships on the waves, facing different weathers on each wall. Clear, perfect conditions on the right and a raging storm on the left.

_I hope our passage will be calmer than that_ , thought Jon, staring at the choppy waves of the painting.

Jon turned his attention back to the food that Lord Manderly had provided, the majority of which were different varieties of seafood. While not Jon’s first choice, he was not going to turn it down after living on provisions for the last three days.

As Jon took a swig of his ale, he saw Lord Wyman turn to him.

“Is everything to your liking, my king?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you, my lord,” replied Jon, nodding gratefully. “I have a request of you, if you don’t mind me talking about it while we eat.”

“Not at all, Your Grace.” Lord Wyman replied graciously, as he drained his horn of mead and refilled it. “Anything that House Manderly can do for the Starks, we will do gladly.”

“I have further need of your fighting men,” said Jon, cautiously. “I thank you for the thousand men you have already sent north to the Wall but I have need of another thousand.”

“If I may ask, Your Grace?” asked Manderly. “What would they be doing?”

“I will need five hundred of them to garrison and reinforce Moat Cailin, while the other half will head to Torrhen’s Square to support House Tallhart.

“The last time a King in the North left the North, the Ironborn invaded and many Northerners died. I would rather that not happen again.”

Jon fell silent, his thoughts wandering to Robb. While Jon loved his brother dearly, he couldn’t help but question his decision to send Theon to treat with his father, Balon. The Greyjoys were known to despise the Starks, especially after Eddard had helped Robert Baratheon crush their rebellion. And sending Theon back to his home, where he had been taken from all those years ago, didn’t seem to be the best plan. Robb’s trusting nature had put him and the North in danger from the Ironborn and had ultimately killed him at the Red Wedding.

_I promise to do right by you, brother_ , promised Jon solemnly. _I will learn from your mistakes._

“It would be my honour, Your Grace,” boomed Lord Manderly, not noticing the far-away look on Jon’s face. “My men are yours to command.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said Jon, gratefully. “Your loyalty won’t be forgotten.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Manderly, waving his hand dismissively. “It is the least I can do. Your Wildling friend had a point earlier. I did not send men to aid you and Lady Sansa to retake Winterfell so I must make up for that now.”

“My lord,” said Jon seriously, turning in his chair to look him in the eye. “Both my sister and I have forgiven you and the other lords who didn’t rise to our aid against the Boltons. The fight wasn’t looking to be one we could win and you wanted to keep your family safe. I understand that, my lord. Believe me, I do.”

Manderly nodded at Jon, seemingly placated, before lifting his tankard to him.

“To House Stark.”

“To House Stark” echoed Jon, smiling.

*

At noon, the following day, Jon, following Lord Manderly and his son Wylis, led his companions down the hill towards the harbour. People once again lined the streets, trying to get a glimpse of him and bowing as he passed. Jon shook his head at the sight, still unnerved by the level of deference and respect he had been receiving lately.

As they reached the harbour, Lord Manderly walked toward the largest ship there. It was a war galley, with room for around a hundred oars. Jon looked around confused, seeing more war galleys lying in wait.

“Where did these come from?” asked Jon, turning to Lord Wyman. “I thought the North didn’t have a fleet since Brandon the Burner?”

“We didn’t for a long time,” replied the lord, with a devilish smile. “But we have been busy for the last few years, since the Red Wedding. We built them in case the Southerners decide to attack us from the sea.”

“How big is your fleet?”

“It is _your_ fleet now, my king. It is relatively small, only around thirty or so war galleys. This one is now your personal galley.”

As he had been talking they had come alongside it and had walked along the jetty to stop near the front. Jon turned to see the large white wolf’s head on the front of the ship, with its gleaming red eyes sparkling in the sun.

Jon looked around at the Manderlys, both of whom were wearing identical looks of amusement and pride at his reaction.

“Our shipwrights have been working day and night on this vessel since we received your raven. It was already here and we wanted to make this one personal to you.”

“Does it have a name?” Davos asked, impressed.

“ _The Wolf of the Sea._ ”, replied Wylis, proudly. “We thought the name should show that this is the first Stark ship in centuries.”

“Thank you,” said Jon, reaching out to shake their hands. “Thank you both.”

“It is an honour.”

“Good luck in Dragonstone, my king.”

Jon shook both their hands and then turned to follow the others as they clambered aboard.

“Ser Davos,” called Jon. “I think I would like you to be in control while we are aboard.”

“Very well,” said Davos, looking around him at the impressive vessel. “I think I should tell you though, I am used to vessels a lot smaller than this.”

“I’m sure you will manage.”

Jon turned to see Ghost was walking gingerly along the deck, clearly unsure about the sensation of the galley bobbing slightly in the water.

_If he is unsure now, what will he be like when we take to the sea?_ Jon wondered.

“You know, Jon Snow,” said Tormund, as he clapped Jon on the back. “The last time we were on a boat together, we ended up at Hardhome, fighting White Walkers.”

“Well”, said Jon, chuckling slightly. “Where we are going now can’t be any worse can it?”

_I hope_ , prayed Jon desperately.

*

Three days into the voyage, Ghost was beginning to get restless.

He had begun to become accustomed to the rhythm of the ship going over the waves and spent much of his time in Jon’s cabin. However, that morning was different. He had followed Jon out the cabin and had taken to pacing up and down the top deck. Jon watched him for a moment, confused as to what was causing this behaviour.

Eventually, Jon turned from his direwolf and headed over to Ser Davos, standing staring out at the sea.

“Enjoying being back at sea, Davos?” asked Jon, as he reached him.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he replied. “The sea was like home to me for many years.”

“And now we are heading to your other home,” said Jon. “What can you tell me about Dragonstone?”

“Well the keep was constructed by the Targaryens when they fled Valyria and they lived there for generations. Aegon the Conqueror planned his invasion of Westeros there. After Robert’s Rebellion, King Robert gave Dragonstone to Stannis instead of Storm’s End and it became his seat during his claim to the throne.”

Davos paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. Jon could tell from his face that there was something troubling him. Jon remembered hearing about the ‘offerings’ that Stannis had made by burning the idols of the Seven, and their worshippers, to Melisandre’s Lord of Light. Jon might not believe in the Seven but he didn’t believe that refusing to change your gods was a crime worthy of being burned alive.

“What about the dragonglass?” Jon asked, trying to distract Davos from his thoughts. “I heard Stannis say that there is some on Dragonstone.”

“ _Some_ ,” replied Davos, incredulously. “There are vast caverns of it, running beneath the keep.”

“Really?” Jon replied, his interest piqued. “That much? Well that is another reason to gain an alliance with Daenerys.”

Before Davos could reply, Ghost began to howl.

Jon’s head snapped around to look at him, shocked. One of the main reasons that he had been named Ghost is that he rarely made noise. If he ever howled like this then something was clearly very wrong.

“What’s wrong boy?” Jon asked, as he reached out to pet him, trying to soothe him.

Jon saw that his eyes were fixed on something on the horizon and followed his gaze…

And the breath left his body.

_Dragons._

Two of them.

Even at this distance, Jon could see them, flying and writhing around each other in the sky. As they drew closer, Jon began to truly appreciate the size of them. Even the smaller of the two could probably swallow a sheep whole.

The crew began to panic lightly, at the sight of these formidable creatures.

“Get ahold of yourselves!” roared Davos.

“What the fuck is that?” shouted Tormund, who had appeared to Jon’s left.

As they grew even closer, Jon could see the differences between the two. One had dark green scales while the larger of the twos were jet black. The larger dragon was bigger than his companion by around a half. They swirled and danced around each other, playfully nipping at the wings or back of the other. Every once in a while, one would let out a loud shriek that would send a ripple of fear through the assembled crew.

Jon watched in awe at the sight. He had thought about what the dragons would look and act like many times but this was even more than he could have imagined.

Suddenly, the green dragon seemed to notice them and began to hover, gazing down at them. This set the crew’s nerves, already near breaking point, even further on edge.

Then it dived.

Shouts erupted as the crew scrambled to grab weapons, spears and bows and arrows. Jon reached to his hip but realised, cursing himself as he did so, that he had left Longclaw in his cabin, not expecting to need it in the middle of the sea. To his left, Tormund drew his blade, reading himself.

The dragon stopped suddenly next to the ship and began to hover alongside. He beat his green leathery wings gently, keeping pace with them, causing a wind to whip across the deck with every beat, as he observed the now stationary crew with his glowing bronze eyes eagerly.

Jon was amazed. He had expected that the dragon would set their ship alight before flying away but here it was, just observing them with what seemed to be curiosity.

On an impulse, that he couldn’t explain, Jon began to approach the dragon.

“What the fuck are you doing?” growled Tormund, as he attempted to grab Jon’s arm.

Jon pulled away from his friend’s grip and continued his approach. Ghost began to whine slightly, clearly trying to get Jon’s attention, to stop him from going further, but Jon blanked it out and kept moving.

The dragon turned its head, sensing Jon’s approach and fixed him with a glare. Jon met its bronze eyes and didn’t look away as he advanced. The dragon cocked its head to one side, curious at Jon’s actions. At that moment, Jon was sure, though he still didn’t know why, that the dragon wouldn’t harm him.

“Get back, Your Grace!” shouted one of the crewman, as he raced towards the dragon with his spear raised.

“No!” roared Jon, raising his hand.

The dragon opened its mouth, revealing sets of teeth like black daggers, and let out a low growl that sent a shiver down everyone’s spine. The crewman stopped dead, whether because of Jon’s command or fear of the dragon was unclear.

Jon saw orange and yellow fire begin to brew at the back of the dragon’s throat as it turned to the crewman with the spear.

“Drop the fucking spear!” commanded Jon loudly. “Now!”

He did so immediately, raising his hands above his head in submission, and backed away. The dragon watched him back away before raising his head and expelling the flame in a plume into the air.

Jon stood still, breathing heavily and feeling his heart pounding.

_What am I doing?_ He demanded of himself, still unable to explain to himself his conviction that he would be unharmed that was continuing to drive him forward.

Shaking his head slightly, he began to walk forward again, causing the crew to recoil at once, shaking their heads in disbelief.

As the dragon returned its gaze to him, Jon raised his hand towards it.

When he reached the edge of the galley, Jon raised his hand further towards the dragon, who stayed still for a moment, still beating its wings to stay alongside the ship. Jon kept his eyes locked onto the dragons blazing bronze eyes, feeling the breeze from the wings ruffle his hair.

The dragon moved its head closer to Jon’s hand, its reptilian nostrils flaring slightly, catching his scent. Jon could feel his heart hammering in his chest. He was looking uneasily at the rows of black teeth, keenly aware that if his idea was wrong then the dragon would have no problem in ripping off his arm.

The dragon’s snout was now only inches from Jon’s hand and he could feel the heat radiating off the creature, like he was warming his hand in front of a roaring fire.

Then the snout made contact with his palm and Jon was sure that the contact was scalding his palm even through his leather gloves. The dragon’s eyes closed for a moment as Jon patted his scaly nose uncertainly, completely disbelieving.

The dragon stayed in place for a moment before it spread its wings and, with an ear-splitting roar, soared back to where its fellow was circling, high above them. Jon stayed as he was, hand still outstretched for a moment.

“What the fuck was that?” Tormund demanded, as he stood alongside Jon, looking at him as if he was insane.

“I have no idea,” replied Jon, honestly.

*

A few days later the island of Dragonstone came into view, with its imposing keep overlooking it. Jon stared at the jet-black stone castle, wondering what kind of reception they would get from its occupant. As Jon watched, he saw another dragon come into view, circling the keep and his mind went back to the encounter with the green dragon.

Jon still couldn’t wrap his head around why the dragon hadn’t harmed him or his own certainty that nothing would happen. Tormund and Davos were as confused about it as he was. Tormund, however, once he had gotten over the shock of it, had praised him.

“You’ve got a pair on you, lad,” He had laughed, while slapping him on the back. “Staring down a fucking dragon. After fighting and killing a White Walker, I thought you were fucking mad. Now I know you are!”

An hour later, Jon, Davos and Tormund along with Ghost made their way to shore, having docked _The Wolf of the Sea_ a little offshore. As they grew closer to the shore, Jon saw two figures make their way down from the small village. One of them Jon could recognise even at this distance.

As they disembarked, Tyrion Lannister walked towards them, smiling broadly across a heavily scarred face.

“Jon Snow,” he beamed. “It is good to see you again, my friend. And you too, Ghost.”

Ghost padded up to Tyrion, whom the direwolf now towered over, and lowered himself down to allow Tyrion to pet him.

“It is good to you too, Lannister,” replied Jon, returning his smile as they shook hands. “This is Tormund Giantsbane and Ser Davos Seaworth.”

Tyrion stepped past Jon to shake the other two men’s hands, giving Jon a better look at his damaged face.

“It seems like you have seen some battle since we last met.”

“Ah this,” he replied, indicating his scarred face dismissively. “Compliments of a Kingsguard blade at the Battle of Blackwater. And you, Snow? Where did your scars come from?”

“From an eagle being controlled by a Wildling warg.”

Tyrion’s eyes narrowed slightly but there was an expression of amusement on his face.

“Well, well, Jon. The stories about you get increasingly stranger. King in the North, resurrected from the dead and now attacked by an eagle.”

“And here you are at the side of Daenerys Targaryen. I am sure that is a strange tale too.”

“One I will be all too glad to share with you, my friend. _After_ you have met the queen. Ah, forgive me. Where are my manners? I believe you know my companion here, Theon Greyjoy.”

Jon’s eyes snapped to the man standing behind Tyrion and, sure enough, there Theon stood, staring resolutely at the ground.

Hatred and fury rose up in Jon like he had never felt before. Here stood the man that had betrayed his brother, caused so much pain to the people of the North and the reason that Bran and Rickon had to flee their home. It took all of Jon’s restraint to not unsheathe Longclaw and take his head there and then. Ghost moved to stand behind Jon, lowered onto his haunches and snarling at Theon.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Tyrion was watching him closely, with an expression of curiosity and apprehension on his face. Jon dimly wondered what this was all about. Tyrion knew about what Theon had done to the Starks, so why was he bringing him here? Jon ignored his suspicions as he walked towards Theon.

When he reached him, Theon was still staring down at his feet but Jon could see, now that he was closer, that he was quivering. Jon pushed away a wave of pity for him and waited for a moment but it didn’t look like he was going to move on his own.

“Look at me Theon,” Jon commanded.

Theon waited for a moment, before raising his head to meet Jon’s eye. Jon saw, with a flicker of shock, that Theon was scared out of his wits.

“Why Theon? Why did you betray Robb?”

There was no answer at first. He just stood there shaking, meeting Jon’s furious gaze with his own watery one.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered finally, his tears finally falling free.

“Sorry isn’t enough Theon. You have done far too much to my family to earn any kind of forgiveness. However, luckily for you, there are two reasons why I will not be taking your life today.”

Theon looked at Jon with both relief and confusion on his face. Jon continued, ignoring Theon’s obvious joy at his words.

“First, I need an alliance with Daenerys and I doubt that killing one of her allies will be a good start towards that end.

“Second, you saved Sansa from Ramsay’s clutches. While that is not enough to erase what you have done to the Stark family, it is enough to convince me that I don’t need to kill you.”

Jon turned away from Theon and towards Tyrion, whose wide smile had returned causing Jon to scowl in confusion. He was clearly happy by the outcome of this meeting, but Jon couldn’t work out why.

“What was this?” Jon asked furiously.

“A small test,” responded Tyrion. “To see if you can put family grudges aside for us to work together. It will be needed for you and Queen Daenerys to reach common ground.”

“I think, Tyrion,” said Jon evenly, trying to quell the anger inside him. “That out of mine and Daenerys’ families, the Starks have the right to hold a grudge.”

“Point taken, my friend. But remember, Aerys was the Queen’s father and she sees those who took the throne as usurpers.”

Jon scoffed derisively but chose not to argue any further. He would save that for the Queen.

As Jon opened his mouth to ask Tyrion where exactly Daenerys was, there was a screech from above them, causing all to look up to see a very pale coloured, almost white, dragon circling down towards them.

It landed a short distance away and Tyrion walked towards it, beckoning for Jon to follow him. As Jon got closer he could see that there was golden colour mixed in with the white scales.

“This is Viserion,” said Tyrion, as he patted the scaly nose of the dragon. “He is the smallest and friendliest of Queen Daenerys’ dragons. He also seems to have taken greatly to me.”

“What about the green one?”, Jon asked, quickly. “Is he known to be friendly?”

Tyrion’s head whipped around, clearly baffled by Jon’s statement.

“How do you know about Rhaegal?”

“We saw him on the way here, along with the large black one.”

“That’s Drogon. What happened?” demanded Tyrion eagerly.

Jon told Tyrion the story of meeting Rhaegal on the ship. As he progressed further into his tale, Jon saw that Tyrion’s look of amazement increase.

“That is incredible,” said Tyrion, shocked. “Rhaegal isn’t known for being too friendly to strangers, though he is not nearly as hostile as Drogon.

“However, dragons are smart creatures. Rhaegal more than likely saw you order that crewman to leave him unharmed. While it is doubtful that he would have been greatly injured, he would likely be grateful that you protected him.”

“How do you know that?” grunted Tormund, dismissively. “It is a dragon, not a person. How can you tell what it is thinking?”

As if to answer him, Viserion growled slightly at him, causing Tormund to jump and move away from him.

“There you go,” said Tyrion, smirking. “They are _very_ smart creatures. They understand what is happening around them. That is why Daenerys is able to command them as she does.

“Speaking of whom, we should get going.”

Jon walked beside Tyrion, with Ghost alongside him. Jon glanced over his shoulder and saw that Theon was following Tormund, still gazing at the floor, and he felt another pang of pity for the former Stark ward now that he saw first-hand the damage that Ramsay had done to him.

As they made their way through the village, Jon mulled over what Tyrion had said.

_Earning a dragon’s gratitude_ , though Jon, amazed. _Now I have heard everything_.

Jon looked around and saw many different standards flying around here and there. There were some that he vaguely recognised but some, like a silver seahorse on green, that completely eluded him.

“I see we are not the only guests here.”

“No,” said Tyrion, smirking slightly. “Most of those here are the ones, like yourself, that showed up without sending a raven first.

“Many, like House Velaryon, claimed that they didn’t waste time with ravens and set sail as soon as they read Daenerys summons, ready to swear fealty to the rightful Queen.”

“Fucking bootlickers,” growled Tormund, causing Tyrion to burst into laughter.

“Quite right, my friend. The others, like Houses Tarth and Tarly, did it purely to prevent their raven being intercepted by forces loyal to Cersei, I suspect.”

“Tarly?” Jon said, surprised. “They are here?”

“Yes, Randyll Tarly and his son Dickon arrived three days ago. Why do you ask?”

“I know his older son, Samwell, from the Night’s Watch. He’s my friend.”

“Well maybe I could make an introduction?” Tyrion offered pleasantly.

“I don’t think that would go well,” responded Jon darkly. “I have heard too many stories about his father from Sam so it would likely end with an argument.”

Tyrion nodded his understanding as they climbed even higher towards the keep. Jon looked around him and saw a variety of people. He saw some that were clearly Westerosi knights but there were others that drew his eye. He saw some warriors with long braided hair and curved blades, speaking in a harsh language that he didn’t understand.

“They are the Dothraki,” informed Tyrion, following Jon’s distracted gaze. “Daenerys won their loyalty before she set sail.”

As they continued up the hill, Jon turned to Davos.

“Strange being back Davos?”

“You could say that, Your Grace,” he replied, smiling slightly. “But it I pleasant too. I called this place home for many years.”

As they grew closer to the keep, Tyrion grew more and more nervous looking.

“Jon,” said Tyrion hesitantly. “You know that Daenerys expects you to bend the knee to her?”

Jon chuckled slightly at his words.

“I’m sure Her Grace expects many things, Tyrion. That doesn’t mean they will happen. The Northerners made me their king and I would be a very poor one to give up the title not even a month into having it.”

Tyrion opened his mouth to respond but seemed to think better of it and shook his head. Jon was glad. He liked Tyrion and didn’t want their friendship to be soured arguing over his queen.

As they passed through the main doors into the keep, Jon felt a sense of excitement and anxiety begin to bubble in the pit of his stomach. As he walked through the corridors, he gazed at the dragon carvings on the wall and shook his head, laughing.

_Well the Dragon Queen seems to have picked the right place for her seat_ , he thought.

They came to a large set of doors and Tyrion stopped next to it. Jon turned and saw that Theon had slipped away somewhere.

 “So, Jon,” said Tyrion, drawing attention back to him. “Are you ready to meet the Queen?”


	5. Bran I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. Here you go, hope you enjoy it. Let me know in the comments.  
> Next up is Tyrion so I hope you are ready for Tyrion and Tormund drinking while Jon and Dany talk in the next room. (Just joking. I'm not that evil.)

 

Bran

 

“If Robert finds out, he’ll kill him. You know he will. You have to protect him. Promise me, Ned. Promise me.”

Lyanna dying, in a bed of blood.

Eddard taking the baby from one of Lyanna’s handmaidens.

The baby.

 _Jon_.

The vision faded and Bran came back to the present, breathing heavily as if he had been running, his mind racing in pace with heart. He couldn’t believe what he had just seen.

His aunt Lyanna was Jon’s mother. Bran thought he knew who Jon’s father was, given her kidnapping by Rhaegar being one of the main causes of the rebellion. Jon’s father was unlikely to be Robert Baratheon as, while he was known to be a drunk and violent man, he was unlikely to kill his own child, especially if it was with his beloved Lyanna, who had been stolen from him.

 _Was she stolen?_ Bran wondered.

He had been told his whole life that Rhaegar taking Lyanna was one of the reasons for the rebellion, but had she truly been stolen? Or had she chosen to leave with him?

As he thought back to the end of the vision, Bran felt a rush of respect for his father. He had taken Jon in, while knowing that he would be seen throughout Westeros as a man who had dishonoured his wife by fathering a bastard. He had then raised Jon, his nephew, with the same respect and love as he had his own true children.

Bran thought of Jon, _his cousin_. He recalled the coldness and indifference that his mother, and later Sansa, would have for Jon for as long as he could remember. He couldn’t help but wonder what would have been different if his father had told his mother about Jon’s true parentage. Would she have treated Jon differently? Would she have welcomed him as a true member of the family, instead of someone who constantly brought shame to the Stark name?

A rush of pity and sadness for Jon flooded through Bran. Jon had considered himself a bastard all of his life, a black mark of shame against his father’s honour. He had constantly distanced himself from everyone as though he didn’t really fit in, even joining the Night’s Watch to relieve himself, and the family, from the shame he thought he brought them.

 _I’m sorry, Jon_ , thought Bran, sadly. _You didn’t deserve to have all this thrust upon you for so long._

“Bran?” Meera asked, looking worried at his silence. “Bran? Are you all right?”

Bran stayed silent for a moment longer, trying to control his whirlwind of thoughts.

“Y-yes,” stammered Bran, finally. “I am fine.”

“What did you see?”

“Jon,” Bran replied quietly, feeling a renewed rush of sympathy for his cousin at the sound of his name.

“Your brother?” Meera asked, looking confused.

“No,” replied Bran, shaking his head. “He is not my brother. He is my cousin.”

Meera’s eyes widened at his words, before furrowing her brow in confusion.

“My father found Lyanna dying from childbirth,” explained Bran. “As she died, father promised her that he would protect Jon, so he took him to Winterfell and raised him as a son.”

“Bran, I-”, Meera faltered slightly, her brow still furrowed. “Why did the Three-eyed Raven show this to you? It is important to your family, but everything he showed you was to help us against the White Walkers.”

“Well,” said Bran, thoughtfully. “His father could be Rhaegar Targaryen. I don’t know that for sure, although your father might. He was there with my father when they found Lyanna.”

“Bran!” Meera said suddenly, sitting up a little straighter. “If Rhaegar is Jon’s father, then he is a prince, an heir to the Iron Throne.”

“Yeah,” said Bran absent-mindedly, as he mulled over her words. “He would be, wouldn’t he?”

Bran was struck by a sudden memory, of overhearing Old Nan telling Robb and Jon about the Long Night.

 _“How were the White Walkers defeated?”_ Robb had asked, bouncing up and down in his seat, brimming with excitement.

 _“Azor Ahai, with his flaming sword, known as Lightbringer, defeated them.”_ Old Nan had replied.

 _“Who was Azor Ahai?”_ Bran remembered that Jon had been sitting with his eyes wide, hanging onto her every word.

_“No one knows, child. But it is said that he will one day be reborn as the Prince that was Promised.”_

_The Prince that was Promised_ , echoed Bran.

If Rhaegar was Jon’s father, then he would be a prince. He had also been the subject of a literal promise, from Eddard to Lyanna. It all seemed to fit.

_Could Jon be-?_

“Bran,” said Meera, bringing him from his thoughts. “We need to keep moving.”

“Right,” replied Bran, nodding vaguely as he tried to wrap his head around his theory.

They made their way towards the wall very slowly, as they no longer had the sledge or a horse to move Bran. He half-dragged himself along through the heavy snow while Meera helped him when he tired. It was a long and arduous process.

Bran thought of the ease of their journeys before, with the help of Hodor. Bran felt a rush of loss and guilt for the absence of his friend, that had little to nothing to do with his ability to carry Bran around. He remembered Hodor’s last moments, the gentle giant sacrificing himself to save Bran and Meera from the horde of wights.

 _He was so much more than people thought_ , Bran realised sadly. _I’m sorry Hodor. I’m so sorry._

After a few hours, they hadn’t gone very far but Bran and Meera were both exhausted and took a rest in a large clearing, under the branches of a large tree. Bran was grateful for the rest, as it gave him a chance to plan what he would say to Jon at Castle Black.

He had decided to tell him about his vision, whether he would believe it was another matter. Bran understood that his abilities, his visions that had predicted the future and now being able to see into the past through the weirwood trees, were hard to both explain and comprehend. He was sure that Jon would believe him though. Even if they weren’t brothers, they were still family and were as close as brothers.

However, what Bran was not sure of was Jon’s reaction to the news. The news that everything he had thought he had known about himself was a lie. He wasn’t the son of Eddard Stark but, possibly, Rhaegar Targaryen. The man they had all been told had stolen his aunt, really his mother, away from her home based on his lust for her.

Bran was woken from his thoughts by a sudden realisation.

It had become very quiet.

No birds chirping in the trees. No rustling in the leaves above them. Nothing.

Bran looked towards Meera and saw a look of horror spreading across her face. She had obviously realised what this meant, although Bran was still completely in the dark at the moment.

And then he heard it.

_Footsteps in the snow._

From two different directions.

Bran’s chest constricted in fear. He had a feeling that he knew what was coming although he prayed to the Old Gods that he was wrong. The chill that was creeping into his bones however was confirming his suspicions. He had gotten used to the cold beyond the wall but this was worse, like his blood was turning to ice in his veins.

The footsteps were getting louder and closer. He could hear branches snapping and breaking as the two approaching figures pushed their way through the brush. Bran looked to Meera and saw her face was as white as the snow all around them, as she clutched at the hilt of the dragonglass dagger at her hip.

Bran turned back in the direction of the nearest of the footsteps and froze in place.

A White Walker walked into the clearing.

Bran looked to his right and saw another one, almost identical, come to a stop thirty feet away. Bran took in their appearance, tall with their night-black armour covering their pale blue skin that almost seemed to steam in the cold air. Bran saw their weapons, which sent another shiver down his spine. One had a blade that resembled a traditional longsword, even though it looked to be made of pure ice, while the other appeared to carry a spear. Bran looked at their blue eyes, which seemed to glow in the dim light of the clearing, and began to shiver uncontrollably.

Bran saw movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see Meera rising to her feet, unsheathing her dagger. She stood still, her eyes fixed on the White Walker closest to them, on their left. A small, derisive smirk appeared on its cruel mouth as it began to move towards them.

Bran tried desperately to warg into it, hoping to be able to control one into killing the other. But Bran physically recoiled upon trying, feeling as though he had just run into a wall. He felt blood trickle from his nose as he looked at the White Walker, stunned. He didn’t know if the White Walker’s magic had pushed him out or if he didn’t yet have the skill required to do so.

A sound that was similar to ice cracking filled the clearing and Bran looked between the two White Walkers, who had halted in the tracks after Bran’s feeble attempt to enter their mind. They were looking at each other and their mouths were moving in what looked like communication. They both looked back at Bran and Meera and began to move forward, as one.

Bran looked on helplessly as the White Walkers advanced on them, grinning at them mercilessly. Bran saw Meera adopt an attacking stance, ready to fight to the death with her small dagger. Bran remembered hopelessly that the dagger wouldn’t last very long as, according to Leaf, dragonglass blades were notoriously brittle.

Then came another sound. One that made Bran’s heart soar.

The sound of a galloping horse.

Both White Walkers froze, the nearest a mere five feet away.

Every eye in the clearing was drawn to the sound and saw Benjen racing towards them, approaching the White Walker on the right, armed with the spear. Meera reacted quickly and lunged forward and plunged the dragonglass into the nearest White Walker’s back.

A horrific screech filled the clearing, as the White Walker thrashed helplessly, trying to remove the shard of glass from between its shoulder blades. It was hopeless however. As Bran watched the White Walker’s skin seemed to harden and become more and more like ice. It fell to its knees and literally shattered, its pieces spreading out over the snow. Bran saw Meera turn toward the other and followed her gaze.

They turned just in time to see Benjen’s horse reach the White Walker and Benjen swinging his sword down in an arc and make contact with the icy spear. His steel blade shattered, its pieces spinning everywhere.

As his horse continued on, Benjen swung down deftly from the saddle, drawing his second sword. This one was made of dragonglass, its jagged blade shimmering in the darkness.

Benjen rushed forward, dodging a lunge from the White Walker’s spear. He danced around it, dodging all its attacks. Bran could see that his uncle was looking for a weak spot to allow an instant kill, not risking his frail blade on parring any blows. He realised that this was the reason that Benjen had not used it while upon horseback. It too would have shattered on contact with the spear, just for different reasons.

The White Walker swung his spear toward Benjen, who ducked it just in time and thrust his blade through the face of the creature. There was no scream this time, it just burst into a cloud of icy fragments.

Benjen stood still for a moment, looking down at his fractured blade, which too had exploded into fragments. He threw away the useless hilt and made his way toward Bran and Meera.

“Come on Bran,” said his uncle, as he pulled Bran onto his back. “They were sent by the Night King to kill you. I passed them on my way North and decided to double back. We need to get you south of the Wall as fast as possible.”

“What?” said Bran incredulously. “The Night King sent them?”

“Bran, don’t be foolish!” Benjen snapped. “You are the Three-eyed Raven now! You are one of the few people who can warn those in the south about the oncoming threat. Of course, he wants you dead!”

“But, Benjen! What about the mark?” Bran asked horror struck, as Benjen hoisted him onto his horse. “Won’t it break the enchantments on the Wall? If it does, then the Night King will make through.”

“Don’t worry, Bran,” said Benjen, patting his arm reassuringly. “The enchantments and magics on the Wall are far more powerful and numerous than those on the cave. The mark you bear may weaken them slightly but not enough to allow the Night King’s army to cross.

“Even if it were,” continued Benjen as he helped Meera into the saddle in front of Bran and handed her the reins, “he isn’t sending his army towards the Wall. He is spreading them thin all across the wilderness, like he is searching for something.”

“Maybe he is looking for the remaining Wildlings,” offered Meera weakly.

“Possibly. But doubtful,” replied Benjen, looking pensive. “I believe he is looking for something that will help him to bring down the Wall and allow him to begin his invasion of the south. Which means you need to get there as fast as possible so you can warn them.”

“What about you?” asked Bran, worried about his answer.

“I’m going to head north, to continue fighting.”

“But you’ve lost your weapons!”

“Come now, Bran,” said Benjen, shaking his head slightly. “I am not that careless. I have a few more blades hidden around. I will be fine.”

Bran didn’t believe him. He looked at the face of his uncle, more damaged and weathered than he remembered from his childhood, and realised that this would be the last time he saw him.

Choking back his emotion, Bran nodded slightly.

“Goodbye, Uncle Benjen.”

“Goodbye, Bran,” replied Benjen, as he placed his hand on Bran’s shoulder.

They looked at each other for a moment, silently saying goodbye, before Benjen nodded at Bran and walked off into the trees. Bran watched him leave with a sense of foreboding, knowing his uncle was marching to his death.

Bran gripped hold of Meera’s waist tight, blinking away his grief, while silently willing her to leave the clearing. Meera seemed to understand, as she spurred the horse northwards. When Bran looked over his shoulder, Benjen had disappeared into the trees.

*

It took them an hour of hard riding to reach the Wall. Even though he had seen it before, Bran was in awe of the sight of it as though he was seeing it for the first time.

They headed for a large gate at the base of the Wall. Bran hoped that they were heading for Castle Black. When they had headed north, they had crossed through the Nightfort, which had been long abandoned. Luckily, the gate opened as they approached and they were received by several members of the Night’s Watch.

“Who are you?” called one of them, as they grew nearer.

“I’m Brandon Stark, of Winterfell,” shouted Bran. “I am Jon Snow’s brother. This is Meera Reed, of Greywater Watch.”

At the mention of Jon, the brothers looked at each other with matching looks of shock. Bran looked between them, with concern and suspicion.

 _Has something happened to Jon?_ Bran thought, concerned.

“What the fuck are you two doing?” came another voice from behind them. Bran saw a man of around Jon’s age with long hair and a short beard. When he arrived, the men seemed to back away in respect.

When the new man heard who Bran and Meera were, he ordered that they both be brought to the Lord Commander’s chambers, with plenty of food and water to be supplied for them.

As Bran was carried through the tunnel, he held his breath as he still expected, despite Benjen’s warning, that the Wall would crumble around him. While that didn’t happen, Bran felt something vibrate through him as he passed through. He knew that this was the magics that Benjen had mentioned and they seemed, for the moment at least, to be holding strong.

As they reached the courtyard, Bran began craning his neck, trying to look all around him and catch a glimpse of Jon. It seemed to be in vain, however, as there was no sign of him anywhere.

The Lord Commander’s chambers were quite small and decorated very sparsely. There was a desk, behind which the man with long hair was sat, as well as a few chairs and a narrow bed, behind a small partition. However, the roaring fire was welcome after the near constant cold that they had endured for the past few days.

Bran was placed in one of the chair on the other side of the desk, next to Meera, who was already tucking into the food spread across the desk. Bran saw that they had brought bread, cheese and various bowls of stew as well as a flagon of ale. It wasn’t until he saw the food on display that he realised how hungry he was and began to eat.

“I am the Lord Commander here, for the moment anyway,” said the man, as he poured himself a horn of ale. “My name is Eddison Tollett, but you can call me Edd.”

Bran nodded his understanding, his mouth too full to answer. Edd smiled slightly before continuing.

“So, you’re Bran? Jon has told me a lot about you.”

“Where is he?” asked Bran finally. “Where is Jon?”

“Well,” sighed Edd, as he took a large swig from his horn. “This is going to be hard to believe-”

“Trust me, Edd,” interrupted Bran earnestly. “I can believe many things after what I’ve seen beyond the Wall.”

“Yeah, I bet you can,” Ed smiled slightly before growing grave. “Well, Jon is not here. He left a few months ago.”

“He _left_?” replied Bran before shaking his head incredulously. “Jon wouldn’t break his oath. That is not like him.”

“Well, he didn’t break his oath. Not _really_ ,” explained Edd slowly. “The Night’s Watch oath lasts until death. Jon was the Lord Commander before me. But he was mutinied against and murdered.”

Meera choked on her mouthful next to him, as Bran’s mouth fell open.

“He was killed?”

“He _was_. He was resurrected by a priestess, Melisandre, who then began going around calling him the Prince that was Promised or some shit.”

 _There it is again_ , thought Bran, before pushing it away and focusing on more important questions.

“Who killed him?” asked Bran furiously. “And why?”

“Alliser Thorne,” replied Edd bitterly. “He and Jon hated each other from the moment they set eyes on each other. He was joined by Othell Yarwyck, Bowen Marsh and Jon’s steward Olly. They killed Jon because he let the Wildlings south of the Wall.”

“What happened to them?” asked Meera quietly.

“Jon personally executed them,” replied Edd, with a twinge of satisfaction on his face. “One of the first things he did after he came back.”

Bran nodded grimly. He was glad that death hadn’t seemed to change Jon too much, as he still seemed to be following Eddard’s teachings, by executing the traitors according to the Old Way.

“So, where _is_ Jon?” asked Bran.

“Your sister, Sansa I think she said, she showed up here with a giant of a woman and her squire. Ramsay Bolton sent a letter challenging Jon to take Winterfell back as he had Rickon in his dungeons.”

Bran felt a cold sweat break out all over his body at Edd’s words. He was vaguely aware of Meera looking at him concerned but he gave it little attention.

 _Not Rickon_ , begged Bran desperately. _Not Rickon too._

“W-what happened?” asked Bran shakily, his voice cracking slightly in expectation of the worst.

Edd’s expression seemed to confirm his worst fears.

“I’m sorry, Bran. From what I heard, Jon and your sister managed to take back Winterfell and kill Ramsay but Rickon was killed. Rumours are that Ramsay did it himself.”

Bran sat in his chair, feeling numb. He felt like his world was collapsing.

 _He can’t be gone_ , thought Bran. _Not little Rickon._

Bran remembered his little brother, who had always run around the courtyard of Winterfell, trying to join in with Robb and Jon when they would practise their swordsmanship with Ser Rodrik. He remembered the look of joy on his face when Robb had presented him with the small, black direwolf pup, that he would name Shaggydog. He remembered the tearful look on his face that night in the windmill when they had said goodbye, for what would prove to be the last time.

Bran looked at his feet, as tears began to form at the corner of his eyes.

 _Father, Mother, Robb and now Rickon_ , thought Bran despairingly. _And Arya is missing and who knows where_.

Bran thought back to his training under the Three-eyed Raven. One of the first things he had shown Bran was the Red Wedding. The sight of Robb and his mother being killed by the Freys, in an act of betrayal, had filled Bran with such a feeling of sorrow and grief that he didn’t speak to anyone for days, mulling on their loss. The feeling was returning in full force at the loss of his brother, but Bran knew that he wouldn’t be able to shut himself away this time.

“What happened at Winterfell?” Bran managed to say, choking back his grief. Meera reached out and squeezed his hand supportively, and Bran returned its pressure unconsciously.

“Jon and Sansa managed to raise an army,” replied Edd hesitantly. “Mainly made of Wildlings but he managed to secure the loyalty of a few smaller houses, like Mormont and Hornwood.”

“Wait a minute,” interjected Meera suddenly. “Why did Jon let the Wildlings beyond the Wall? I thought that was one of the duties of the Night’s Watch.”

“It is,” replied Edd, and Bran could see that he looked uncomfortable at this topic. “Jon brought them south to stop them becoming part of the White Walkers’ army of the dead. I know that sounds unbelievable but-”

“I know it is true, Edd,” interrupted Bran, quickly. “I’ve seen them with my own eyes.”

Edd’s eyes widened slightly but then his face relaxed. He seemed relieved that someone knew that the White Walkers were real and not just some story, told to frighten children.

“After Jon and I fought them at Hardhome, I thought no one would believe us. Many didn’t. You don’t know how good it feels to know you aren’t the crazy one.”

Bran smiled slightly at his words, mainly because he now knew the feeling. He was glad that someone other than him had seen the White Walkers, someone other than him would carry the warning to the south. Jon had seen them too and had surely told all those who would believe him.

“Anyway,” said Edd, continuing his story. “Like I said, Jon and Sansa amassed an army and took back Winterfell, although not without loss. After the battle, the Northern lords, and those of the Vale, proclaimed Jon the White Wolf, the King in the North.”

Bran sat still for a moment, completely disbelieving his own ears.

“Jon is the King?” asked Bran incredulously.

“Yes,” replied Edd. “He has definitely has improved his situation.”

Bran sat for a moment, mulling on these revelations.

 _Jon has been through a lot._ Bran thought sadly. _Being murdered, resurrected, winning back Winterfell and being named King. And now I show up and will tell him he might be the heir to Seven Kingdoms._

“You shall stay here for a few days,” said Edd, pulling Bran from his reverie. “I will send a raven to Winterfell to inform them of your arrival. Jon has sent me a thousand men to man as many castles as I can. When they arrive, I will order a few of them to escort you home.”

“Thank you, Edd,” said Bran, nodding.

“Ah, it’s nothing. Jon was my brother so I will do all I can to help his true sibling.”

*

For the next few days, Bran and Meera spent much of their time resting or planning on how they would act to spread their warning of the Night King’s coming. Edd had taken them up to the top of the Wall. Bran looked out at the lands beyond the Wall and wondered about what Benjen had told them.

_What is the Night King looking for? How long will it take him to find it? And what would happen when he does?_

Three days after they arrived, the men arrived from Winterfell, a thousand strong. Bran looked out in amazement as he saw all the various standards that they carried.

 _Glover. Manderly. Cerwyn. Tallhart. Mazin. All houses loyal to Jon_ , thought Bran, with pride.

The various commanders of the men presented themselves to Edd, offering their service in the name of ‘Jon Snow, the White Wolf, and the King in the North.’ Edd then sent them to repair and man the many castles along the Wall. The Nightfort, Stonedoor and Queensguard among many other names that Bran couldn’t place.

Edd pulled aside six men, who bore the silver fist standard of House Glover, and ordered them to escort Bran and Meera back to Winterfell. As they prepared to leave, Edd approached them.

“Thank you, Edd, for everything you have done for us,” said Bran gratefully as he approached.

“It’s nothing,” replied Edd, waving his hand dismissively. “Tell Jon we will hold the Wall for as long as we can but we don’t have enough men to keep them back forever.”

Bran nodded his understanding and shook the man’s hand.

“I’ll tell him. Don’t worry. The Night King won’t win.”

As Edd nodded grimly back at Bran, a horn sounded indicating that it was time to leave. Bran led his horse through the gates and down the road towards Winterfell. He looked back over his shoulder several times, each time expecting to see the Wall collapsing on itself, his guilt over breaking the enchantments on the cave not yet gone.

It took them several further days to reach Winterfell, the excitement in Bran’s stomach building more and more with each passing hour. When the walls of his birthplace came into view Bran almost cheered in joy, unable to contain his excitement at seeing Jon and Sansa once more.

As they approached the keep, Bran’s heart soared ever higher at seeing the Stark banners once more flying from its walls. The fanfare that greeted them as they passed through the gates nearly caused his horse to bolt, however Bran was not concerned. His attention was taken by the young woman standing in the middle of the courtyard. A young pretty woman with long auburn hair.

 _Sansa_.

Bran’s face broke into a grin and saw that his expression was mirrored on her face. One of the Stark guardsman helped Bran from his saddle and placed him into a chair that they had prepare for him.

Sansa strode across the courtyard, all sense of duty forgotten, and wrapped her arms around him, sobbing slightly into his shoulder. Bran returned the gesture, his smile never fading. As he held his sister close, he struggled to remember when he had been so happy. All the pain from the losses that he had endured; his family, Jojen, Hodor, all seemed to diminish slightly now that he had gained something back that he had thought he had lost forever when he and Rickon had fled these walls.

_He was home._


	6. Tyrion I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, ladies and gents. The one you have been waiting for. I hope it lives up to the hype.  
> Let me know in the comments.  
> Next up will be Arya, killing some Freys

 

Tyrion

 

“Are you ready to meet the Queen?”

As his friend nodded his assent Tyron examined Jon Snow’s expression. He looked determined but there was also a sense of apprehension about him, like he was unsure about the outcome of the following meeting. Tyrion was more than aware of the bad blood between the families of Jon and Dany, but he was sure that they could put that aside for the good of the realm, especially if he was there to guide them both.

“Very well,” said Tyrion, rubbing his hand together. “I will go in first and when the door opens again, you can follow me.”

As Jon and his companions nodded, Tyrion turned on his heel and knocked hard on the huge wooden doors. They were pulled open by the Unsullied who guarded the inside.

Tyrion walked into the Great Hall and made his way to the far side of the room, where Dany had set up a temporary dais upon which a throne had been placed. Tyrion cast his eyes around the room, taking in the Targaryen banners that hung on the walls and the large amount of Unsullied guards that were stationed every ten feet or so around the perimeter of the hall.

He looked towards the dais and his eyes fell upon the Queen, sitting up tall on her throne. Grey Worm and Barbarro stood behind the throne, ready to protect her at a moment’s notice. Missandei sat to her left, her hands clasped in her lap, with Yara standing next to her, leaning against the back wall. To Dany’s immediate right was his own empty chair and then Varys, who watched his approach with quiet amusement.

Tyrion reached his chair and sat down, noticing that Dany had turned her head towards him with an inquisitive look in her violet eyes.

“Jon Snow waits outside, Your Grace,” said Tyrion, pouring himself a goblet of wine.

Dany nodded as she returned her gaze to the doors. Tyrion thought he could detect a look of excited anticipation cross her beautiful features and couldn’t supress a smile.

Since they had learned of the Northern king’s travel, Tyrion had lost count of the amount of times she had pressed either himself or Varys for information about Jon. His supposed death and resurrection, his time at the Night’s Watch, his first few acts as the King in the North. She had been told of his exploits that had given him the name the ‘White Wolf’ and his reputation as the greatest swordsman in the North. The more the stories were retold, Tyrion had begun to notice a tiny glimmer of admiration cross her face.

 _Is this her trying to be well informed about her guest?_ Tyrion wondered, as he too turned to face the entrance. _Or is there something more to it?_

Dany signalled to the Unsullied at the door to let Jon and his companions enter. Tyrion saw that Ser Davos and Tormund entered first, with Jon lagging behind with an awkward expression on his face, causing Tyrion to smile even wider.

When the two men reached the foot of the dais Davos nodded respectfully while Tormund barely jerked his head.

“Greetings, Your Grace,” said Davos, as he straightened up. “I am Ser Davos of House Seaworth and this is Tormund Giantsbane. We travel as companions to our king.”

At this both he and Tormund stepped aside and allowed Jon to approach, his cloak billowing around him as he walked. It was at this moment that his similarity to his father, Eddard, struck Tyrion. He had noticed it dimly the moment Jon had stepped onto the beach, but it was here that Tyrion could not ignore the comparison. It wasn’t just the physical characteristics that drew Tyrion’s attention however. Jon had a similar commanding presence to his father, with such a sense of self-confidence in his actions that made his men so ready to follow him.

Jon reached the dais and stopped. He looked up at Dany and Tyrion saw something flicker on his face for a moment, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. Before Tyrion could identify his expression, his face returned to its usual sombre demeanour.

“Your Grace,” said Jon, nodding his head respectfully but remaining on his feet.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Every lord who had come into this hall had bent the knee to Dany, before declaring their loyalty to her as the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Jon was the first to defy her in this way. Tyrion looked at Dany out of the corner of his eye and saw her stiffen slightly. He reached out and drank more of his wine.

 _This is not going to be good_ , thought Tyrion.

“Your Grace,” replied Dany coolly, barely inclining her head in response.

There was another beat of silence, every eye in the hall drawn to the two sovereigns, neither of whom was dropping their gaze from the other, with an icy atmosphere spreading between them.

Missandei’s scream broke the silence. Tyrion turned to her and saw her terrified gaze was fixed to the door behind Jon. Tyrion turned to the doors to see Ghost making his way inside, barely sparing a glance at the flanking guards, who had raised their spears with disbelieving looks on their faces.

As Ghost made his way towards Jon, Tyrion saw that the Unsullied were looking at each other, completely at a loss for what to do. They had gotten used to the sight of Dany’s dragons, but the sight of a wolf that was as tall as they were had clearly shaken them. Tyrion looked at Dany and saw that she was staring open-mouthed at the direwolf, her hands clutching at the arms of her throne, turning her knuckles white.

Ghost padded up to Jon and stopped, turning his head towards his master. Jon reached up and buried his hand in the wolf’s snow-white fur.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” he said courteously, returning his gaze to her. “I should have offered a word in warning.”

“What is it?” asked Missandei, in a small timid voice. She was clearly still unnerved by the sight of the albino wolf.

“This is Ghost,” replied Jon, as he turned to Missandei and smiled reassuringly at her. “He is my direwolf. I apologise if he scared you, my lady. I give you my word, he is well trained and he won’t harm you. He only attacks those who are untrustworthy.”

A door opened behind them and Ghost’s demeanour changed. He instantly lowered himself to the ground, baring his teeth in a vicious snarl. Tyrion turned to see that Theon had entered the room, and was now cowering against the wall, shaking uncontrollably. Tyrion had to suppress his smile at the sight of the Greyjoy’s fear as he returned his gaze to the direwolf.

 _He deserves to be afraid_ , he thought scathingly. _Knowing what he did to the Stark boys, I am still amazed that Jon didn’t take his head when he arrived. He must really need something from Daenerys._

Jon knelt down next to Ghost but kept his eyes pinned on Theon, a look of cold fury etched on his face.

“As I said,” he said, his voice trembling in suppressed rage. “He is not fond of untrustworthy people.”

Tyrion saw Dany’s expression change into one of understanding, as she looked between Jon and Theon. Tyrion couldn’t help but notice the flicker of anger on her face when she looked at Greyjoy.

“Where did you find him?” Dany asked, a slight note of interest in her voice as she turned her gaze to direwolf. At the same time, she raised her hand to stop Barbarro, who had unsheathed his blade and was eyeing the wolf with trepidation.

“As a pup,” replied Jon, as he returned to his feet. Ghost had settled down slightly but kept his blood-red eyes locked on Theon. “My father had executed a deserter of the Night’s Watch and my brothers Robb and Bran, as well as myself, had accompanied him. Even Theon was with us.”

Tyrion saw Dany turn her head toward Theon once more as Ghost let out a low growl from the floor.

“On the way back to Winterfell, we found a dead direwolf with five pups around it, one for each of the Stark children. As we left, I found Ghost, who had wandered from the rest. So, we took them in and raised them.”

“What did your siblings name theirs Jon?” Tyrion injected genially, as he refilled his now empty goblet. “I have forgotten.”

As soon as he said the words, he regretted them. A look of pure sorrow appeared on Jon’s face.

 _Fool! Stupid drunken fool!_ Tyrion chastised himself. _Most of his siblings are either dead or missing. Their wolves have likely followed a similar fate._

“Robb’s was Grey Wind,” said Jon in a low voice, staring into the distance. “They both perished at the Red Wedding. Sansa’s was named Lady and was killed after Arya’s wolf, Nymeria, attacked Joffrey while protecting her.”

“Wait,” interrupted Missandei, confused. “Why would one wolf be killed for the actions of another?”

“Because Arya let Nymeria go, to stop her being killed for attacking Joffrey. Cersei then said that a wolf should die, so Lady was killed instead.”

“That sounds like Cersei,” Tyrion spat, as fury welled up inside him.

 _Of course, she would want to punish someone for hurting her precious Joffrey_ , thought Tyrion bitterly, trying to ignore the well of hatred that boiled in his gut. _It wouldn’t matter if the person that was punished was innocent. Nothing must happen to her beloved son._

“Bran named his Summer,” continued Jon, with the air of a man eager to end the conversation as quickly as he could. Tyrion felt another rush of guilt for making him relive this. “I guess they are still together, wherever they are beyond the Wall.

“Rickon named his Shaggydog and… they are both dead.”

At this Jon’s voice cracked with grief and he lowered his gaze to the floor. Ghost, sensing Jon’s feelings, finally averted his gaze from Theon and raised his head to nuzzle at the back of Jon’s hand. Tyrion looked at Dany and saw a look of sadness on her face. Tyrion watched Jon mourn his losses with an overwhelming feeling of sympathy for him and distaste for himself.

_You made him relive that._

Tyrion opened his mouth to apologise, to try and help his friend through his grief, when another voice spoke first.

“R-Rickon is dead?” It was Theon, speaking up for the first time since his arrival. Tyrion glared at him furiously, for his lack of discretion, and saw a look of shock and horror on his face.

“Yes, Theon!” roared Jon suddenly, raising his head once more, hatred and fury covering his face in equal measure. “Because _you_ forced Bran and Rickon out of Winterfell! Bran then went north of the Wall and only the Gods know where he is! Rickon went to the Umbers, who then betrayed him to Ramsay Bolton, who killed him!”

“How do you know that?” demanded Yara, as she moved slightly in front of Theon. 

“Because he killed Rickon in front of me! My little brother died at my feet and I couldn’t do anything to save him!”

Silence fell in the hall. Every eye was drawn to Jon, who was glaring furiously at the Greyjoy siblings with such a look of anger and contempt on his face that Tyrion was surprised he hadn’t drawn his blade.

“Leave us, Greyjoy,” said Dany quietly. Tyrion was surprised to see that she was looking down at Jon with a sympathetic look on her face. After a moment it vanished, to be replaced by a stoic expression.

“So, my brother has to leave? But that beast gets to stay?”

At Yara’s scathing words and pointing, accusatory finger, Ghost began to snarl again, this time directed at both of the Greyjoys, his fur bristling and his sharp teeth bared. To Tyrion’s amusement, Yara recoiled slightly but didn’t back down.

“Between your brother and Ghost, only one of them has killed innocent children to save his pride,” responded Dany coldly, turning her violet eyes, that were shining with anger, towards the siblings. “If it troubles you that much, you may leave too.”

Theon looked down at Jon for a moment, clearly fighting to find the words to say, before he turned and left the hall. Yara remained however, in a sullen silence. Everyone was quiet for a moment, trying to process the revelations that had just happened. Tyrion looked between Jon and Dany and saw them exchange looks.

Jon’s was of gratitude that she had ejected the man who had betrayed his family and was responsible for so much of his family’s misfortune.

Dany’s was of sympathy and pity for Jon’s losses, which Tyrion knew that she could understand, and silent acceptance of his gratitude.

 _Well_ , thought Tyrion wryly, barely containing his smile. _This is looking more promising._

“So, Your Grace,” said Varys from Tyrion’s right, disrupting the silence. “What have you come to see Queen Daenerys about?”

“An alliance,” replied Jon steadily, looking straight at Dany. “You want the Iron Throne, correct? I will help you get it. With the support of my forces, you will have the advantage of numbers on land. In return, once the Throne is yours, I will need your help, and your dragons, to defeat the White Walkers and their army of the dead.”

Tyrion’s eyes widened at Jon’s words, completely disbelieving.

 _He can’t be serious, can he?_ Tyrion questioned. _They are just stories._

And yet…

Tyrion examined Jon’s expression. He was staring resolutely at Dany, with a look of determination on his face but there was something else, some haunted look in his eyes that seemed to Tyrion like he was recalling his encounters with these creatures.

 _Jon isn’t the type to lie_ , thought Tyrion. _Especially not in a situation like this. He has come all this way, into Daenerys’ territory, to say this. Pretty poor jest if it is one, knowing that he would likely not go home alive._

Tyrion thought back to the stories he had heard about them while growing up. About how, during the longest winter in history, the White Walkers had attacked Westeros with their army of the reanimated dead and their giant pale spiders. They had been defeated by an alliance of men and the Children of the Forest and the Wall raised to keep them from returning.

An involuntary shiver went down Tyrion’s spine. He had always assumed that they were just stories, but what if they weren’t?

“How do you know this?” Varys asked, bringing Tyrion back to the present.

“Because I’ve seen them,” replied Jon, now looking at Varys. There was no mistaking the look on Jon’s face now. “I’ve fought them and their army of the dead at Hardhome.”

“And killed one,” interrupted Tormund gruffly.

“You killed one?” repeated Dany, incredulously. “How?”

“With this,” replied Jon, patting the engraved white wolf pommel of his sword. “Longclaw is a Valyrian steel blade. It can kill the White Walkers.”

“You know, Jon Snow,” said Dany, with a hint of disbelief in her voice. “The stories surrounding you are getting even more difficult to believe. The only one that has been confirmed to be true is that you left the Night’s Watch, breaking your vows, and became the King in the North.”

“Do you know the Night’s Watch’s vow, Your Grace?” asked Jon, with a hint of venom in his voice.

Tyrion saw Dany shake her head, but he was a little confused. He couldn’t see how reciting his vow, that he had supposedly broken, would help Jon.

“‘Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death.’” Jon quoted calmly. “My death, at the hands of my brothers, freed me from my vow.”

“That is assuming, of course, you _were_ in fact killed,” said Varys silkily.

“I _was_ killed,” retorted Jon, a little defensively. “I have the scars to prove it.”

“If I may, Your Grace,” said Davos, stepping forward. “I was the one who found Jon dead in the snow. He had been betrayed by his men after he had helped Tormund and the other Free Folk. They stabbed him and left him to die in the snow.”

Tyrion looked at Jon and saw that he was looking off into nothing, a look of sadness and listlessness on his face, and he was instantly convinced that the story was true.

 _Whatever he saw,_ thought Tyrion. _It wasn’t the Seven Heavens that the Faith of the Seven proclaim it to be._

“You know, Your Grace,” said Jon suddenly, breaking from his trance. “You say that the stories surrounding me are hard to believe. But here you are, the returning Queen with her three dragons. There are many in the Seven Kingdoms who find that equally hard to believe.”

“Do you?” Dany replied, raising her eyebrows questioningly.

Tyrion reached out and drained his goblet nervously.

 _This is not going well at all_ , thought Tyrion as he drank half his goblet.

“No,” replied Jon, meeting Dany’s eye once more. “I know that they are real. I have seen them.”

“More than that actually,” interjected Tyrion quickly, sensing an opportunity. “Rhaegal seems to have taking a bit of a liking to Jon.”

 _If Dany thinks that one of her children trusts Jon, then that might help her trust him a little too. Which will aid them come to an alliance,_ thought Tyrion triumphantly.

As expected, Dany whipped around in her throne to face Tyrion, looking both confused and interested. She fixed him with a piercing stare, her eyes glowing with curiosity.

“What do you mean?”

Tyrion raised his goblet to Jon, signalling that he should tell the story. Jon sighed, shaking his head, before facing Dany.

“On our way here, we saw two of your dragons, Rhaegal and Drogon, I think Tyrion said.” Jon said, looking to Tyrion for confirmation, who nodded excitedly in return. “Rhaegal flew down to look at all of the crewman on deck. One of them, thinking that Rhaegal was going to harm me, approached him with a spear.

“He was unharmed,” he continued, raising his hand in response to Dany opening her mouth furiously. “I commanded the man to stand down, and not harm Rhaegal. And then…”

Jon trailed off, a look of puzzlement on his face. Tyrion smiled, as Jon was clearly still trying to understand Rhaegal’s actions.

“Rhaegal let Jon approach him, and even touch him,” finished Tyrion confidently, once more draining his goblet.

Tyrion turned to Dany and was amused to see that she was as confused by Rhaegal’s behaviour as Jon was. Rhaegal, as Dany knew better than anyone, was not as wild as Drogon but not nearly as friendly and welcoming as Viserion. This behaviour was very strange for him.

“That is very unusual,” muttered Dany, almost to herself.

 _But useful_ , though Tyrion triumphantly, as he examined Dany’s expression. _If Rhaegal has formed some kind of trust for Jon then Dany will want to keep him here for now, to see what has drawn her child to Jon. She knows, better than most, how intelligent her dragons are. And that will give them time to see that they will need to join forces._

“Back to the matter in hand though,” said Dany suddenly. “You wish an alliance with me and my forces but yet you refuse to bend the knee.”

“Yes,” replied Jon resolutely and Tyrion could see, from the determined look in his eye, that he was not going to back down on this. “As I said to Tyrion, I was made King in the North not by my name, but by the will of my bannermen. I would be a very poor King, and one not worthy of their loyalty, if I relinquished the title that they have given me as soon as you arrive.”

Tyrion looked nervously at Dany, anxious at how she would take this repeated display of defiance. However, she seemed to be seriously considering his words, her brow furrowed in concentration. Finally, Dany nodded, to Tyrion’s surprise.

“I understand the difficulty of your position,” she said diplomatically, despite there being a hint of anger in her tone. “While I won’t be recognising you as King in the North, I respect your loyalty to your people.”

Jon nodded slowly back at her, frowning slightly. He was clearly confused by her response, but he could not fail to notice her tone.

“I will also consider your proposal for an alliance between us. I invite you to remain at Dragonstone while we negotiate the proposed terms of said alliance. Our talks shall begin in two days.”

Seeing this as his cue, Jon nodded respectfully and turned to leave, his companions falling into step alongside him.

“C’mon Ghost,” he said, not looking back.

The white direwolf raised itself from the floor, with another low growl directed at Yara before turning and padding after his master. Tyrion watched the unusual foursome as they left the hall with a small sense of accomplishment.

As the doors closed with an echoing crash, Tyrion turned in his chair to face Daenerys.

“So,” he said, causing her in turn to face him. “That went better than I expected.”

“I’m sure it did, Tyrion,” she replied, smiling a little. “We will see if we can negotiate some kind of an alliance him.”

“If I may ask, Your Grace?” Varys inquired, bowing his head respectfully. “Why have you decided to try to ally yourself with Jon Snow? You didn’t seem very open to idea before.”

“There is something… _interesting_ about him,” she replied, looking curiously at the door.

“What, because one of your dragons took a liking to him?” Yara asked, a little scornfully.

“That is enough to get me curious, Yara,” Dany responded coolly. “But this potential alliance is based off of a lot more than my curiosity. He has an army, maybe big enough to give us the advantage over Cersei Lannister.”

“How big is his army?” asked Grey Worm, stepping forward to stand behind Missandei.

“According to my birds, the North’s forces were hit hard in the War of the Five Kings,” said Varys, folding his hands in his lap. “But he can still call upon roughly forty thousand men if all his bannermen send every available man. The Vale can provide him around the same. That is not including the potential men of the Riverlands, that we discussed.”

“That would be more than enough to aid against my sister,” said Tyrion excitedly. This alliance was looking more and more profitable for all sides.

“Yes, but if you accept his aid then you have to help him with his _White Walkers_ ,” replied Yara, scoffing at the idea.

“That was strange,” said Dany distractedly. “His stories are completely unbelievable and yet…”

“He didn’t look or act like he was lying,” finished Missandei, equally curious.

“It is not in Jon’s nature to lie,” said Tyrion knowingly. “He is too honourable, too similar to his father.”

At his words, Tyrion couldn’t help but notice the look of scepticism cross Dany’s face. Her feelings about the Starks were well known, as close allies to the Baratheon usurper who had seized her family’s throne.

 _I hope she manages to look past that_ , thought Tyrion hopefully.

“Could it be true?” Dany asked suddenly, in a hushed voice. “Could the White Walkers be real?”

Tyrion looked at her and saw that she was looking at him with interest and, unless he was very much mistaken, a little apprehension shining in her violet eyes.

“I don’t know, my Queen,” Tyrion replied, deep in thought. “But if I was to guess, based purely off of the way Jon was speaking, I would say that they are.”

Dany nodded, a grim look masking her beautiful face, as she returned her gaze to the door, an action that Tyrion followed as he wrestled with his thoughts.

_We invited Jon here in the hope he would join with us in the war against Cersei. But it looks like he might have brought us an even bigger one._

*

Later that evening, Tyrion made his way to Jon’s chamber, swaying slightly due to the wine he had already consumed. He carried another flagon of wine in one hand and two goblets in the other and so far, miraculously, hadn’t spilled a single drop.

 _Won’t be long before I do_ , thought Tyrion, as he swayed even more drunkenly.

He arrived at his destination and knocked on the door, swaying even more. He heard the sounds of movement within, which was followed by the sound of sniffing around the base of the door.

 _Ghost_ , thought Tyrion with a smile.

The door opened a crack and Tyrion saw Jon’s face appear, looking more tired than he had been earlier, his exhaustion making his usual sombre face even more so. However, on seeing Tyrion, and what he was carrying, a small smile appeared on his face.

“I did say,” said Tyrion, raising the goblets, “that when you came to Dragonstone, we would share a drink.”

“Yes, you did, Lannister,” replied Jon, as he opened the door fully.  

Tyrion walked into the spacious guest quarters and looked around. There was a large bed that dominated the majority of the floor space, the remaining belonging to a large rug that Tyrion suspected was older that him and Jon put together. Tyrion saw the one of Jon’s guard had placed the Stark standard in here, propped up against the wall.

Tyrion turned to Jon, who was now seating himself at one of the chairs in front of the fire, with a small table between them. Tyrion saw that the large cloak he had been wearing earlier had been removed and draped over the back of his chair. Tyrion saw that he was wearing the traditional Northern garb, boiled leather armour over a woollen shirt.

Tyrion seated himself on the second chair, his feet only just not reaching the floor, and place the flagon between them. He looked at Jon, ready to share a smile with him, but he saw his friend was gazing into the depths of his roaring fire, a pensive look on his face.

Tyrion poured a healthy measure into both goblets and pushed one to Jon. The sound of the goblet scraping on the wooden surface seeming to pull his friend from his thoughts.

“Cheers,” said Tyrion, raising his goblet in toast.

Jon did the same and they both drunk. Tyrion had raided the stores to find the best wine on the island, and it didn’t disappoint.

“So, Jon” said Tyrion, desperately trying to keep his friend’s attention, as he beginning to lose himself in his thoughts once more. “What do you think of the Queen?”

His question worked. Jon looked at him for a moment with a look of amusement, before he seemed to seriously consider the question.

“She’s…” Jon seemed to come to a decision, but shook his head, thinking better of it. “She’s…”

“Intimidating?” Tyrion interjected, amused. “Impressive?”

“Yes, let’s say that,” said Jon, seemingly grateful that he didn’t have to use the words in his head, which Tyrion suspected might be less polite.

“Jon, listen,” began Tyrion gravely, putting down his goblet. “I know Daenerys was a little… _hostile_ towards you, today. But what you have to remember is that you are the first lord to openly defy her like that. If they refuse to bend the knee, they send a raven. You, on the other hand, sail all this way to do it to her face.”

“That is not why I travelled all this way,” exclaimed Jon, indignantly.  

“I know,” responded Tyrion, raising his hand to stem any possible tirade. “And Daenerys knows, as you do, that this potential alliance is in both of your best interests. You just need to put aside the hostility between you.

“Before you say it,” he continued, raising his voice slightly as Jon opened his mouth to interrupt, “Yes, the Stark family have been hurt by the Targaryens and I agree that you have every right to hold a grudge. But what you have to remember is that Daenerys has heard all of her life that the Starks were the Usurper Baratheon’s most loyal supporters, the ones that took away her family’s throne. So much so that every time someone mentions your father’s name or his honour, she scoffs at the idea.

“You need to show her that this impression that she, rightly or wrongly, has of the Starks is not the truth. You do that and she will be more open to an alliance.”

Tyrion saw Jon consider his words for a moment, before nodding his understanding. Pleased that he might have pushed these two a little closer to an agreement, Tyrion refilled his goblet. He thought back to the meeting earlier and remembered all the moments where Jon and Dany had been glaring at each with ill-disguised antagonism and hoped that he might have repaired a little of that damage.

However, Tyrion also remembered the look on Jon’s face when he had informed them of his brother, Rickon’s death, and felt a rush of guilt.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” he said lowly.

“What for?” Jon replied, looking baffled.

“When I asked you about your siblings’ wolves. I should have known better.”

Jon nodded in understanding, as the look of grief appeared back on his face, which did nothing to alleviate Tyrion’s feelings of guilt. However, a feeling of realisation soon struck Tyrion, as he remembered back to all the stories they had told Dany about Jon.

“We heard that you nearly beat Ramsay Bolton to death in the courtyard of Winterfell. That was because of Rickon wasn’t it?”

Jon nodded again, draining his goblet as he did so.

“Why didn’t you kill him? If that had been my brother that little prick had killed, I am not sure I would have held back.”

“Because of Sansa,” Jon replied, confusing Tyrion even more. “While I was attacking him, Sansa arrived in the courtyard, and I realised that she had more right than me to kill him.”

Tyrion raised his eyebrows at Jon expectantly, hoping for a further explanation. Jon, however, shook his head.

“That is not my secret to tell, Tyrion. I can only say that she had a very good reason to want him dead.”

“So, she fed him to his own hounds? That is very different from the Sansa I briefly knew.”

“She has been through a lot,” said Jon, cryptically. “Besides, you have heard about what Ramsay used to do with people?”

Tyrion nodded gravely, feeling sickened to his stomach. Even in King’s Landing, tales had reached them about the Bolton Bastard, about how he had flayed people, and worse, purely for his own amusement.

“Then you know that what happened to him was justice, and that he deserved far worse.”

Tyrion thought for a moment, before nodding emphatically.

 _That little shit deserve far, far worse than that_ , thought Tyrion.

Jon fell silent again, and they both became absorbed in their own thoughts. Tyrion swirled his goblet in his hand absentmindedly, staring into the red liquid. He decided to voice a question he’d had since the meeting earlier.

“Is it true, Jon?” he asked, in a hushed voice, not looking up from his wine. “About the White Walkers?”

Jon looked at him, and Tyrion saw that haunted look return to his eyes once more, the look of a man who has seen his worst nightmare made real.

“Yes,” he replied quietly. “Everything I said was true.”

Tyrion believed him, a feeling of dread spreading through him at the realisation. All those stories he had heard, and passed off as nothing more than tales to scare the children, were true.

“ _How_?” he asked at last. “I thought they weren’t supposed to be real.”

“That is what I thought too… until I saw them,” replied Jon, draining his goblet. “I saw them first at Craster’s Keep. He was a Wildling that sacrificed his children to them, and I saw a White Walker take away his latest sacrifice.

“Then I saw them again, and fought them, at Hardhome.”

“You said that earlier”, said Tyrion, gripping his goblet a little tighter after feeling a slight tremble in his hand. “What is that?”

Jon sighed and refilled his goblet.

“Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, amassed an army of a hundred thousand wildlings. When Stannis broke his army, the survivors headed for the settlement of Hardhome to regroup and wait out the winter.

“Tormund and I headed there, to get their support in the Long Night. We had little success, just over five thousand agreed to join us. However, as we were leaving the weather changed, a blizzard came out of nowhere. Then _they_ arrived.”

Jon paused for a moment, looking like he was trying to collect his thoughts. Tyrion waited with baited breath, feeling a little like he did as a child when he had heard stories like this about the White Walkers for the first time.

“The wights came first, their reanimated army. Nothing stopped them. An arrow in the head, cut in half, nothing worked. They jumped from a cliff and just got up and ran at us. Fire is the only thing that kills them.

“But they weren’t the only things there. Four White Walkers led the army, including their leader, the Night King. I managed to kill one, after a long fight. Steel doesn’t work against them. It just shatters like glass. Only Valyrian steel and dragonglass can kill them.

“That is why I want an alliance with Daenerys. Her dragons will be invaluable against the wights and this castle is sitting on an almost limitless supply of dragonglass, from what Davos said.”

Tyrion nodded, finally understanding the full reasons behind Jon’s travel. After hearing his story, Tyrion was convinced that Jon was telling the truth. The tone of Jon’s voice, and the look on his face, had told Tyrion that every word was the truth.

Silence fell between them, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Tyrion drained goblet after goblet of wine, trying to comprehend what Jon had told him. After a while, the silence began to unnerve Tyrion so he decided to lighten the mood.

“Anyway,” he began, trying to sound as jovial as he could, despite his deep feeling of dread. “I came here for us to get a little drunk and share stories of a less despairing nature. So, let’s get started.”

Jon chuckled slightly, and looked toward Tyrion, who was pleased to see a note of amusement on Jon’s face.

“I don’t have many good stories, Tyrion,” said Jon, smirking a little.

“Then I will start,” said Tyrion, filling his goblet to the brim and doing the same for Jon’s. “I once took a honeycomb and a jackass into a brothel…”


	7. Arya I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you are ladies and gents, a little early xmas present from me.  
> I hope you enjoy it and you all have a good holiday.  
> As always, let me know in the comments what you thought of it.  
> The next chapter will be Sansa, which will be up whenever I sober up long enough to write it.

 

Arya

 

Arya watched as Walder Frey died, his hands desperately trying to clasp his slit throat shut, gargling and choking on his own blood. She felt a sense of accomplishment and, if she was honest with herself, peace. She had avenged the betrayal of her brother and mother, in this very room, with her own hands.

“Valar Mor-” she began, before stopping short.

 _No_ , she though resolutely, as she saw the last light leave the old man’s eyes. _Any kills I make from now on are not for the Many-Faced God. There are for me._

Arya cleaned her dagger’s bloody blade on the old man’s clothes before returning it to her belt. As she lowered her hand back to her side, she caressed the handle of Needle, hanging from her waist. As she did so, she thought of when Jon gave it to her, before they had both departed Winterfell.

She felt a familiar pang of loss, that she always had whenever she thought of her brother. She missed everyone in her family. Rickon, Bran, even Sansa. But she missed Jon most of all.

 _I’ll see him soon_ , she promised herself. _I’ll head North and find him._

With a jolt of anger, she remembered that the Boltons were occupying Winterfell. The thought of those traitors living in Winterfell, her home, made Arya sick to her stomach. As her hand unconsciously wrapped around Needle once more, anger flowing through her, Arya resolved that she would make a stop on her way to Wall. She would make those traitors pay for killing Robb.

 _When I am finished here_ , she thought, as she stealthily made her way across the hall. _After I prune the Frey family tree._

Arya had been at the Twins for over a week now, wearing the guises of various different servants, while she learned the layout of the keep and planning for this night. She had learned about all the various nooks and passages of the castle, the common routes that the, thankfully small, guard took during the evenings and the locations of all of Walder Frey’s many heirs, both trueborn and bastards.

Arya was going to kill them all. Watch the life leave their eyes as she slid Needle into their throats.

All except one.

Olyvar Frey had been Robb’s squire, as part of his agreement with Walder Frey for their crossing of the Twins. While she had been gathering information, she had heard much about him, and even seen him once or twice. The stories were that Olyvar and Robb had become friends, with Olyvar being a loyal and dutiful squire. His loyalty to Robb had made his family nervous, so much so that they had sent him away from the Twins for the Red Wedding, to stop him from warning Robb.

Arya thought back to the first time she had seen him, three days into her stay. She had been cleaning the floor in the Great Hall, wearing the face of an elderly cleaning lady who had died in her sleep. There were around twenty of the Freys there, feasting and drinking. They were all laughing raucously as they retold, for the twelfth time that Arya had heard so far, the story of their participation in the Red Wedding. When they got to the part where Robb’s head being removed and replaced with Grey Wind’s, Arya had almost acted, ready to kill everyone in the hall. However, before her anger had taken over, Olyvar rose from his seat, looking almost as angry as she felt.

He was tall and strong, whereas the majority of his siblings were short and fat, his years as a squire clearly improving his physique. However, he was clearly a Frey, with the familiar facial features and attire. His anger at the story, however, was clearly different from his siblings.

“Shut your mouth!” he thundered, causing one particularly fat Frey to squawk in surprise and fall from his chair. “You murder people in our hall, after giving them guest rite, and now you sit here boasting about how you mutilated their bodies.”

“Of course, you would say that, Olyvar,” guffawed one of the Freys, who Arya later learned was Black Walder. “You weren’t trusted enough to be here, to help the family. You would have told the Stark fool about our plans.”

“You are right _brother_ , I would have,” Olyvar replied, with such malice in his voice that Black Walder and several others recoiled slightly. “Robb was a good man and deserved far better than what you fucking animals did to him.”

Black Walder had risen angrily from his seat and made his way to Olyvar, trying his best to look intimidating. However, his drunken gait coupled with his unimposing, flabby build purely made it laughable.

 _Nobody can look intimidating wearing those stupid hats they wear_ , Arya had thought to herself, as she had found herself riveted by the exchange.

Black Walder stood in front of Olyvar, even though the top of his head barely reached his nose, and locked eyes with his half-brother.

“If it wasn’t such a sin to do so, I would find myself a kinslayer after that disrespect.”

His threat didn’t have the desired effect however. Far from making Olyvar cower, he began to roar with laughter.

“Don’t make me laugh, _brother_. When has sin stopped you from doing anything. It is a sin to lie with goats, yet you do that regularly.”

A roar of laughter filled the hall, clearly revelling in Black Walder’s humiliation. Arya saw that many of them were clearly exaggerating their mirth, obviously not wanting Olyvar’s attention turned to them. Black Walder gaped wide-eyed, visibly taken aback by Olyvar’s outburst, which was clearly not a regular occurrence. Olyvar, however, pressed his advantage.

“Black Walder, the Goat-Fucker. It is catchy, brother. You should use it more often.”

The hall rung once more with laughter, accompanied by the banging of many goblets on the table in hilarity. Before Black Walder could respond, Olyvar turned and made his way from the hall, casting a scornful look at all he past, causing their looks of joy to wither.

As Arya watched him leave, a small smirk spread across her face as she resumed cleaning, she had decided to allow Olyvar to live. He had clearly become close to Robb during his time as his squire, with his loyalty to her brother still clear even after his death.

 _Well, there seems to be one honourable Frey_ , thought Arya as she made her way to the giant stairwell. _Stranger things have happened._

Arya contemplated the stairs before making her way up, towards the living quarters. From her time here, she had learned that the trueborn sons of Walder Frey lived here, in the Eastern castle, while the bastard children were located in the basement level of the Western keep. Olyvar Frey, after his outburst, had been moved to stay with his bastard half-siblings as punishment. Arya had decided to go there last, to give him a message to pass on.

Arya arrived in a wide corridor, with dark wooden doors on both sides, blending in with the wooden walls. Arya crept towards the closest one, the quarters of Stevron Frey, who had just unknowingly become the Lord of the Crossing after his father’s death. She opened the door to find a spacious room, covered in the colours of House Frey with their house banner hanging from the wall.

Arya looked to the large bed and saw Stevron lying there on his back, his breathing making the thin sheet covering him rise and fall. Arya saw his weasel-like features, so reminiscent of his father’s, relaxed in his sleep. Anger rose up in Arya at the sight of him resting here, peacefully, after his betrayal of her family. She drew Needle and made her way forward.

As she did so, the voice of her teacher, Syrio Forel, echoed through her head, guiding her hand.

_Quiet as a shadow_

Arya creeped close to the side of the bed, keeping her eyes of his face, illuminated by a strip of moonlight from the open window. She stopped next to him, her anger reaching a fever pitch in her gut.

_Calm as still water_

Arya reached out and clamped her hand over his mouth, to quell his shouts. He awakened immediately, his eyes widening in shock at the sight of her. She pressed the point of Needle against his throat, drawing a bead of blood at the pressure, and his feeble struggles stopped immediately.

“My name is Arya Stark,” she said calmly and quietly. His eyes widened even further in recognition and dread, filling her with a sense of amusement.

_Fear cuts deeper than swords_

“And this is for the Red Wedding.”

Arya pushed Needle through the man’s throat and withdrew it, causing a stream of blood to flow from the puncture. Like his father, Stevron began to choke and cough as blood filled his airway. Arya watched as the man struggled for life, his blood staining the sheets around him crimson.

When the life left him, Arya cleaned Needle and left the room, making her way down the corridor. Time and time again, she pushed Needle into the throat of the Frey heirs, each of whom completely terrified at the sound of her name, and watched as the life left their eyes. She left their wives alone however. Arya knew, from her investigating during the last week, that they had not participated in the Red Wedding and so, in Arya’s eyes, didn’t deserve to die. None of them had stirred while their husbands died next to them.

As she progressed, she was struck by a memory. The parting words of the Red Woman.

_I see a darkness in you. And in that darkness, eyes staring back at me. Brown eyes, blue eyes, green eyes. Eyes you'll shut forever._

Arya couldn’t help but marvel at the accuracy of her prediction. Since she had seen the Red Woman, Arya had killed many people, shut many eyes forever. It just made her hate the Red Woman all the more.

After killing the last of Walder Frey’s trueborn children, Ser Hosteen Frey, Arya stood in the hallway, breathing deeply. She was halfway finished her task, and now had to progress to the hardest part: crossing the walkway to the Western keep. There was a large tower in the middle of the Twins, known as the Water Tower, that guarded the crossing. Arya had noticed while crossing that there were many arrow slits in it, concealing an unknown number of guards.

While she suspected that the guard presence inside was minimal, due to the end of the War of Five Kings, she couldn’t be sure, as it was one of the few places in the Twins that she had been unable to gain access to, although not for lack of trying. It overlooked the bridge that connected the two halves of the Twins, the only way to cross. If Arya was to complete her task, she had to cross that bridge.

Arya exhaled deeply, before making her way down the stairs once more. As she stealthily made her way through the corridors of the keep, deliberately avoiding known guard routes, Arya felt her heart hammering in her chest. She knew that speed was important if she was to remain undetected, as any of the wives of the men she had just slain could awaken at any moment. Arya knew, in hindsight, that leaving them alive was probably a poor decision. However, her conscience, and Stark honour, had gotten the best of her. She had already killed the innocent servant girl whose face she wore while killing Walder Frey, and she didn’t want to kill any more people that didn’t deserve death.

Before long Arya came to the bridge, and she flattened herself against the wall, before lowering herself onto one knee to survey the Water Tower. She could vaguely see, through the darkness, the various arrow slits in the walls. Several had a dim glow shining from them, which Arya knew were from candlelight. She watched these especially, waiting for any tell-tale break in light from any guards moving around.

When none came, she began to creep forward. Arya made her way along the bridge, hunched over and blending into the shadows as best she could. She paused every ten paces or so, for a moment or two, to strain her ears, ready for any shouts heralding her discovery. None came however, no matter how far along the bridge she went.

When Arya reached the Western castle, she passed through the gateway and made her way to its staircase. Each keep of the Twins were an exact copy of each other, earning its name well. She came to the staircase and headed down, into corridors with stone block walls rather than wood-panelling. 

As Arya found herself in the corridor that she knew served as the living quarters for the bastard Freys, she heard mumbled voices making their way towards her. Instinctively she quickly hid herself in a nearby nook, behind a decorative suit of armour. Holding her breath, she listened as the heavy footsteps, of at least two guards she guessed, made their way towards her.

Blending with the shadows, her heart hammering like a drum in her chest, Arya waited, only vaguely hearing them complaining about their shift guarding the bastard Freys. After they passed her, Arya waited for a little longer. She knew that once they had left, she would have near a quarter hour before they returned.

 _Plenty of time_ , she thought grimly, as she left her hiding place and entered the first room.

These rooms were in stark contrast to the spacious, comfortable rooms in the Eastern castle. These were damp, cold and crowded, with four beds crammed into this one room, and Arya knew that the others would be similar. While this made a little more difficult to kill them all unnoticed, Arya would make the best of it. She drew Needle and got to work. The majority of the hall went just as planned, with none of them awakening to the sounds of their brother’s deaths.

Until the last room.

Arya knew that this was the last of the crammed rooms, before she arrived at Olyvar Frey’s quarters. Despite being sent here to be punished, he was still a trueborn Frey, worthy of his own quarters. She had entered the crammed room and had seen three slumbering forms, their wooden bed frames creaking and groaning under their weight. She had smiled to herself and begun.

The first died without incident, despite wheezing and spluttering loud enough that Arya was sure would wake everyone in the vicinity. As Arya killed the second however, a voice from behind her chilled her blood and caused her breath to catch in her chest.

“What the fuck!”

Arya spun around and saw a Frey rising bleary-eyed from his bunk, staring at the small form of Arya in disbelief. When he brought himself up to his full height, Arya could see that he was a foot and a half taller than her, but she wasn’t concerned.

 _No different than usual_ , she thought, calm as still water.

As he lunged drunkenly towards her, Arya ducked under his wild swing and thrust Needle up, piercing through the man’s temple. He crumpled and fell with a crash into a table, knocking goblets and glass pitchers to the floor. Arya stood for a moment, cursing silently at her sloppiness.

“Did you hear that?” came a voice from the corridor, sending another jolt of fear through her.

The guards were back early.

Arya moved to the wall behind the door and flattened herself against it, shrouding herself in shadow once more, reading Needle in expectation.

“I don’t know. Maybe one of those fat shits fell on their arse. Let’s check it out.”

 _Shit!_ Arya cursed desperately, having hoped that they would pass it off as a drunken Frey and move on.

The door eased open, causing a shaky triangle of light from their lantern to illuminate the floor. Before long it fell on the form of the dead Frey, lying among goblets and smashed glass. Luckily, he had landed on his front, with the majority of the blood hidden under his bulk. However, Arya knew that it wouldn’t be long before it began to spread, so these guards needed to either leave or be dealt with soon.

The guards made their way into the room, both passing so close to Arya that she could smell the alcohol and sweat odour coming from them both. As the door swung shut behind them, Arya moved before they could examine the body too closely.

_Swift as a deer,_

_Quiet as a shadow._

She pushed Needle through the back of the neck of the guard closest to her and out of the man’s throat. As she withdrew Needle, the man fell to his knees, his hands clamping around his throat, trying desperately to keep the wound shut. The second guard, the one holding the lantern, turned at the sound and was greeted by Arya thrusting Needle through his eye, and out of the back of his skull.

The man fell like he was made of stone, dropping the lantern to the floor with a crash, causing it to extinguish itself. Arya stood stock still for a moment, hardly daring to breath. She strained her ears with everything she had, listening for any sounds of discovery, particularly from Olyvar’s room.

When nothing came, Arya exhaled deeply, hardly daring to believe her luck.

 _Thank the Gods_ , she thought, relieved.

Arya bend down to clean Needle, before an idea struck her, causing her to smirk slightly. Leaving the scene of death and carnage she had made in the room, Arya snuck out into the hall. She approached the door leading to Olyvar’s chambers, still listening hard for any signs of life from within. When none came, she eased the door open, entering a room just as damp and dark as the others along the hall, albeit with better furnishings and a candle burning on the windowsill.

Arya saw Olyvar’s sleeping form and smiled again, slipping off the pack that she had on her back. She reached inside and pulled out a thin, fleshy object from within and turned it so it caught the candlelight.

It was a face.

A grizzled, middle-aged man’s face, with a large jagged scar along the left cheek. It had belonged to a cutthroat who had been on the boat that Arya had bartered passage on from Braavos. She had killed him in the night, took his face and dumped his body overboard. Arya had prepared it, as best she could, like she had learned at the House of Black and White.

Now was the moment of truth.

The changing of faces had always fascinated Arya, ever since she had seen Jaqen H’ghar perform it on during their escape from Harrenhal. She had done it herself several times now, but it still amazed her how it was done. While the face obviously did little to mask her height and physique, it did give her the exact likeness of the person she had taken it from, as well as masking her voice somehow, so she didn’t sound like the teenage girl that she in fact was.

Arya raised the cutthroat’s face and placed it on her own and felt it attach instantly, like a second skin. She felt a sense of elation, knowing that it had worked. Fuelled by this, Arya made her way to the bed, desperately trying to limit any further noise.

 _All right then_ , thought Arya as she stopped next to the bed. _Time to put on an act._

Like the others, Arya placed her hand over Olyvar’s mouth, and watched he awoke slowly, his eyes widening slightly as his eyes fell on the figure looming over him.

“Hello, Olyvar,” said Arya, in a voice so gruff she couldn’t believe that it coming out of her own mouth. “Sleep well?”

Olyvar’s eyes opened even wider, fear causing his breathing to quicken at an almost frightening rate. Arya kept her breathing steady, and let an evil grin spread across the face she was wearing.

“Congratulations are in order, Olyvar. You are the Head of House Frey, the Lord of the Crossing.

“Well, you are _now_ ,” continued Arya in that unfamiliar gruff voice, as she raised Needle, revealing its blood-covered blade. “After I just killed your father and all your older brothers. And your bastard brothers, just to be sure.”

Olyvar looked even more terrified, his eyes darting all around him. Arya maintained her gaze, hoping to unsettle him enough that he wouldn’t notice her build, still that of a teenage girl.

“In return,” she said, as she wiped Needle down the man’s cheek, leaving a streak of blood, causing Olyvar to close his eyes in revulsion, “all you have to do is remember who you are loyal to.”

Olyvar’s eyes snapped open, anger and recognition filling them. Arya leaned into the man’s face and whispered menacingly in his ear.

“Cersei Lannister sends her regards.”

Arya smashed the pommel of Needle into the side of Olyvar’s head, knocking him unconscious. Arya straightened up and exhaled, reaching up and peeling off the man’s face from her own. As she stuffed it back inside her pack, she couldn’t suppress a small chuckle.

Her plan had worked. It looked as if Olyvar believed that Cersei was responsible for this massacre, hopefully driving a wedge between these two families. If she was lucky, the Freys might even turn on the Lannisters and wipe a few of them out, before they were inevitably crushed by the Lannister’s superior army.

Arya checked that the remaining Frey was still breathing. When she was satisfied that he was still alive, she sheathed Needle and made her way back to the stairs, ready to make her way North.

*

The following day, Arya was riding north on a horse that she had taken from the stables at the Twins. She was beginning to get tired, her activities from the night before beginning to catch up with her.

Arya had ridden hard for several hours after leaving the Twins, trying to put as much distance between her and any following guards. When she had reached a safe distance from the Twins, she had slowed slightly, allowing her new mare to rest a little, as she followed the Kingsroad and continued on her way north.

Before nightfall, Arya came to a farmhouse. It was quite small and set back just enough from the road to not attract too much attention. However, Arya was beginning to grow very hungry. After she had left Olyvar’s room, she hadn’t risked the journey back to the Eastern castle to steal some food from the kitchens and had foolishly forgotten to take some the last time she had been through there.

Arya made her way towards the farmhouse, keeping her eyes darting all around, ready for any threats. On her way, she noticed a small stump and leap down from her horse. She saw that there was a hollow space underneath the stump, that was just the right size for her to store Needle. She placed a few rocks and clumps of loose snow over the hole, before straightening up and looking around her, etching the hiding space in her memory.

Rubbing her hands together to try to stave off the cold, she grabbed hold of the reins of her horse and continued to head towards the farmhouse, wondering who was inside and if she had made a mistake in not keeping Needle with her.

 _No_ , she thought to herself. _If I am to pretend to be a lonely orphan, then it will look suspicious if I am carrying a blade of castle-forged steel._

Arya tied the reins of the horse to a low wooden fence and approached the door and knocked loudly. Before long the door opened to reveal a short, long bearded man peering through the gap suspiciously.

“What do you want?” he snapped.

“Please sir,” said Arya timidly, wringing her hands together, trying to convince him of her feigned sincerity. “I have nowhere to stay and it is getting very cold out here.”

“Where’s your family?” he said, clearly not mellowed by her performance.

“They are dead,” said Arya, allowing her eyes to fill with tears. “My father died at the Red Wedding and mother killed herself not long after.”

That worked. Arya could see the man’s stony expression softening at her words and tears. He shook his head before opening the door wide.

“Come in and get warm by the fire, child. I will tend to your horse.”

After muttering her thanks, Arya stepped into the farmhouse and was instantly enveloped by the delicious smells of cooking bread and stew. Arya looked to the fire and saw a short woman, in slightly ragged clothing, hunched over it. At the sound of the door closing, she turned and fixed Arya with her friendly eyes, before smiling widely.

“Come and sit down, child. I’ll get you a bowl of stew.”

Arya smiled back and settled down next to the fire, relishing the warmth that danced over her skin. Before long the kindly woman pushed a large bowl of stew into her hand, which Arya tucked into with haste.

She looked around the house and saw a number of beds lining the walls, many of which looked like they hadn’t been slept in for weeks. Confused, Arya returned to her food, making a note of it to ask later.

Before long the man returned and joined them round the fire. For a while, the only sounds in the farmhouse were the crackling of the fire and the clanging of bowls.

“What is your name, child?” the man asked suddenly, his voice muffled slightly by his mouthful of bread.

“Jeyne,” Arya replied, thinking back to Sansa’s old friend from Winterfell.

 _I would even be happy so see her again_ , thought Arya. _Even if she was awful to me._

“Welcome, Jeyne. My name is Torrhen and this is my wife, Beth.”

Arya nodded and returned Beth’s warm smile.

“Why are you travelling on your own, Jeyne?” Beth asked, with almost motherly concern.

“After mother died,” said Arya, faking hesitancy, “I wanted to be somewhere that wasn’t home. It reminded me too much of her and Father. So, I left. I travelled south and have been by myself ever since.”

“Why are you coming back now?” Torrhen asked, pouring himself some ale.

“It was time to come home,” said Arya, allowing a little truth into her lie.

“Don’t you have any siblings that could have taken care of you, Jeyne?” asked Beth.

“None that are still alive,” replied Arya, praying that she wasn’t right about this.

 _No_ , Arya thought resolutely. _Jon and Sansa are fine. And I will see them soon._

“I’m sorry, child,” said Torrhen as he passed her a half-filled horn of ale.

Arya took it, a little confused, and looked into the old man’s eyes.

“To those we have lost,” he said, raising his horn in a toast.

Arya echoed his words and drank. She found the ale a little bitter, not used to the taste, but she didn’t mind too much.

“Who did you lose?” she asked, not thinking.

Torrhen and Beth’s faces both become covered with identical looks of misery and pain. Arya noticed the change and cursed her stupidity, the empty beds making more sense now.

“When the Bolton’s took over the North,” said Torrhen sadly, “we had three sons, Robb, Martin and Bowen, and a beautiful daughter, Lyessa. Before long the Bolton’s thugs came here to take everything that we had of value, in _taxes_ they said. When they saw that we had nothing, they said that they would take Lyessa, as she was all we had of value.”

Beth covered her face with her hands and began to sob. Torrhen put his arm around his wife and gripped her firmly. Arya looked down at her feet, feeling awful for making these kind strangers reveal to her something that obviously pained them. She wanted to tell them to stop, to not hurt themselves any more, but the words wouldn’t come.

“When they tried to drag her away, Lyessa screamed, which alerted the boys, who were working with the animals in the fields. They came over with their tools, pitchforks and the like, and attacked the thugs, trying to save their sister. But… they…”

Torrhen tailed off, looking into the depths of the fire, as if hoping it would give him the strength to finish his story. Arya was filled with hatred for the Boltons and wished for nothing more than to kill them all.

“I understand, Torrhen. I’m sorry.” Arya said.

Torrhen held his wife for a moment, consoling her in their shared grief. Arya watched them and struggled to find the words to say to help them, but none came.

 _I was never any good at that_ , thought Arya sadly. _Sansa was. If she was here, she would know what to say._

“Well,” said Torrhen, as he turned to look at Arya again, his sadness replaced by an almost cruel satisfaction. “Those Bolton fuckers got what they deserved though, eh?”

“What do you mean?” asked Arya, completely baffled by his answer.

“You didn’t hear?” he asked incredulously. “Sansa Stark and her brother Jon Snow, the White Wolf, raised an army and retook Winterfell. They kicked those Bolton fuckers out and killed that sadistic little shit Ramsay too. Jon Snow now sits as our king, the King in the North.”

As Torrhen refilled their horns, Arya wasn’t really paying attention. She had to contain herself from breaking into a wide grin, expressing the joy and excitement that she felt rising within her.

 _Jon and Sansa are both fine!_ She thought gleefully. _And Jon is the King! They are both at Winterfell, together, where I will be soon._

“The King in the North!” Torrhen said loudly, raising his horn high.

“The King in the North!” Arya echoed, just as loudly.

Arya drank deeply, ignoring her initial dislike for the taste, savouring the joy she felt at the success of her siblings.

*

The following morning, Arya awoke at sunrise, before the elderly couple. She dressed quickly and grabbed the satchel of food that Beth had prepared for her when Arya had said that she would leave on the morrow, despite their initial protests.

Arya had been tempted to tell them of her true name, but had decided against it. While Jon was in control of the North now, there were still roaming bands of Bolton men roaming the North, according to Torrhen, who would punish them for sheltering her.

He had also told her about stories of a roaming wolf pack, far larger and more vicious than many others in the area. That had sent a slight chill down her spine, as well as a jolt of sadness when she thought of Nymeria. She wondered where her loyal direwolf was now, or even whether she was still alive.

Arya shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts as she prepared to leave the farmhouse. As she reached out to open the door, a thought struck her and she turned back to the large wooden table. Arya reached into her pack and drew out a small pouch of silver coins that she had taken from the Twins and placed it on the table, as meagre gratitude for the couple’s kindness.

Arya opened the door and stepped out into the chilly, morning air. She retrieved Needle, saddled her horse and began her trek north. She couldn’t wait to arrive back home, at Winterfell, where she now knew her brother and sister were waiting. The thought filled her with such a sense of longing and happiness that she spurred her horse on to go faster. For the next few days she rode north, without seeing anyone nor, Arya thanked the Gods, the wolf pack.

That changed one chilly, windy night.

Arya had set up camp in a small clearing, after spending a full, frustrating hour trying to keep her campfire alight. She huddled herself around it, eating a slightly stale crust of bread that she had taken from the now dwindling satchel of food that Beth had given her, trying to warm herself.

Before long, however, the sound of voices found her ears, barely audible above the howling wind. Arya stiffened, reaching for Needle. She strained her ears, desperately trying to hear more, and praying that she had misheard. When she heard the voices again, Arya scrambled to her feet, bringing Needle with her as she crept towards the sound.

Before long she saw the dim flicker of campfires through the trees, the sound of merry voices getting louder with every step. Arya heard the cracking of twigs underfoot, that was not her own, and instantly pressed herself against the nearest tree. She held her breath, listening as the footsteps grew closer. They stopped nearby and before long Arya heard what sounded like running water.

Curiosity getting the best of her, Arya poked her head around the tree. A tall man with long hair, tied back in a ponytail stood with his back to her, having a piss against a tree. Arya guessed, from the random, mismatched armour, that the man was some kind of thief or bandit. The grief-stricken faces of Torrhen and Beth flashed before her, as she remembered them saying that many Bolton men had taken to the woods, acting as bandits.

Fury rose up within her, as she crept from her hiding place and towards the man. She knew at the back of her head that it was unlikely that this was one of the men who had killed Torrhen and Beth’s children, but she didn’t care. Arya didn’t want to take the chance.

She stood behind him, reached up and grasped the end of the man’s ponytail. Arya pulled his head back sharply, forcing him to look up to the sky as she thrust Needle through the back of the man’s head and out of his eye socket. Arya pulled Needle out of the man’s head and stood back as he fell back to the floor. Arya looked at the bloody hole that used to be his left eye and felt a mixture of revulsion and disgust.

A shout of laughter from the nearby camp caught her attention. She crept closer, Needle at the ready. As she reached the crest of a small hill, the camp appeared before her. Arya instantly flattened herself onto her stomach, crawling forward on her elbows into a better position. She cast her eyes across the camp, taking in every detail and doing a quick headcount.

There was around fifteen men in the clearing, arranged into several smaller groups, each surrounding their own small campfire, with the nearest all sitting with their backs to her. They were all in various stages of drunkenness, which worked in her favour. A small smirk appeared on her face as she cast her eyes over the assembled men…

Which disappeared when her eyes fell on a small group on the opposite side of the clearing.

The group was made up of Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, Anguy and the Hound.

Arya brimmed with anger at the sight of the Brotherhood, still furious about their betrayal of Gendry to the Red Woman. However, her anger was matched by her amazement at the sight of the Hound. The last time she had seen him, he had been lying at the bottom of a sheer drop, covered in dirt and his own blood, with a broken bone poking out of his thigh. She had expected him to die within a matter of hours, and yet here he was, months later, drinking and eating with the Brotherhood without Banners.

Arya’s reverie was disturbed by movement nearby. She looked and saw that one of the Brotherhood, in the group nearest to her, had stood up, waving his hands around drunkenly. Arya looked at over at the Hound and his group, and the anger flared up in her once more. She sprung to her feet and raced down the hill, determined to cross a few names off of her list.

The man who had stood up, turned at the sound of her approach, swaying slightly in his drunken state. He barely registered any recognition as Needle swung towards him, plunging into his throat, a thin spray of blood spattering across the front of Arya’s clothes. His companions all staggered to their feet, desperately clutching at their weapons as they shouted for aid.

Arya squared up to the nearest attacker, a one-eyed man who was swaying sideways where he stood. Her confidence grew at the sight, but she cautioned herself not to get too arrogant. The man swung wildly with his sword, which Arya easily side-stepped. She thrust Needle forward, piercing easily through the man’s leather chest piece and into his heart, causing him to crumple in a heap on the ground.

Arya saw movement out of the corner of her eye and turned to see a red-haired man raising his spear towards her. As he thrust his spear forwards, Arya deftly performed a forward roll, his spear sailing a few inches above her. As she righted herself she plunged Needle into the man’s gut, turning his armour crimson as he fell to his knees, trying to stem the flow of blood from his stomach.

Feeling movement behind her, Arya reached down and grabbed a long log from the campfire and swung it in an arc. The flaming tip made contact with the approaching man’s face, causing him to howl in pain and clasp both of his hands to his face. Arya silenced him with a quick jab to the throat.

Arya had raised Needle again, ready to continue her attack, when a shout rang out across the clearing, causing everyone to turn in alarm.

“Girl!” came the Hound’s gruff voice. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Arya turned furiously towards him to see him and the Brotherhood leaders making their way towards her, with looks of anger and disbelief on their faces.

“I’m here to kill you all,” replied Arya calmly, as she tightened her grip on Needle. “What do you think I am doing?”

“I don’t think you want to do that, child,” said Thoros, as he took a swig from his wine skin.

“And, why not?”

“Because we are heading north, to fight the real war, with your brother, the King in the North,” finished Beric, fixing her with a beady stare from his good eye.

Arya jolted slightly, completely unprepared for their answer. She flicked her eyes between them, trying to see any deceit on their faces. When she saw none, she returned her gaze to Beric.

“What do you mean, ‘the real war’?”

“The cold winds are rising in the North, child,” replied Beric, taking a step closer to her but still far away from the range of Needle. “We are heading north to confront it by joining forces with your brother and sister.”

Arya considered his words for a moment, before sheathing Needle with a sigh of impatience.

“I still haven’t, and won’t, forgive you for selling Gendry to that Red Woman,” she said darkly, taking a step towards Beric, while looking him dead in the eye. “But if you are willing to help Jon, I will agree to a truce. At least for now. But if you betray me, or either of my siblings, you won’t live very long to regret it.”

Beric looked at her for a moment, surprised at the brazenness of her words, glaring at her with his good eye, before extending his hand to her. Arya hesitated for a second before taking it and shook, not dropping her gaze for a moment.

“It is good to see you again, child,” he said, as he turned to head towards the dead men that Arya had left in her wake.

Thoros raised his wine skin to her in a mock toast before following Beric. Arya turned her eyes towards the Hound, his burnt face covered in a look of amusement and pride.

“You remembered where the heart is,” he said gruffly, jerking his head towards the corpses.

“Yes, I did,” replied Arya, nodding at him while not looking away. “I see you managed to survive that fall.”

The Hound nodded to her, a small smirk unfurling over his mouth.

“I was wrong.”

Arya raised her eyebrows in surprise at his admission, completely at a loss for what he is talking about.

“What do you mean?”

“The stupid dancing shite that you used to do. It looks like it is useful after all.”

He waved his hand, gesturing to the bloody mess that Arya had left in her wake, and Arya smirked along with him as she fixed him with a curious stare.

Despite all he had done, and all that she had been through since, Arya wasn’t sure that she wanted to kill him anymore.


	8. Sansa I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go guys. Hope you all had a good holiday.  
> As always I hope you enjoy the chapter and let me know what you thought of it in the comments.  
> Next up will be Jaime.

 

Sansa

 

For the first time in several hours, silence fell in the Winterfell study. Sansa sat back in her chair, looking over at Bran and Meera, who were seated opposite her. They had just finished telling each other what had happened since they had last seen each other, all those years ago, before Bran’s fall from the tower and Sansa’s journey to King’s Landing.

From the occupation of Winterfell by Theon and his Ironborn, to their daring escape and travels north and finally how they had crossed the Wall and made their way even further north to meet with the Three-eyed Raven. If she was honest with herself, Sansa was feeling a lot of emotions at Bran’s story.

Firstly, and most importantly, she was overjoyed at her brother’s return home. One of her final remaining siblings had returned back to their childhood home, ready for them to be a family once more.

Sansa was also a little disappointed that Jon wasn’t here for Bran’s return. Jon had told Sansa at Castle Black that Bran had gone north of the Wall while he was living with the Wildlings. He had told her how much he had wanted to find Bran and bring him back, and now Jon wasn’t at Winterfell when Bran did in fact return.

Sansa mourned with him at the loss of Summer and Hodor. She knew what it was like to lose their direwolves, knew that it had hurt as much as losing a family member. Sansa didn’t remember much about Hodor from her childhood, as she had been too interested in her lessons from Septa Mordane, learning how to become a ‘proper lady’. She had known him to be sweet and gentle giant, and knowing that he had given his life to protect Bran and Meera made Sansa respect and care about him all the more.

Finally, Sansa had been shocked by the horrors that Bran had faced. Jon had told her about the wights, the reanimated dead that the White Walkers used in their army. She had found it hard to believe at first, but the look on Jon’s face had convinced her that it was the truth. And now, knowing that Bran too had seen them, and had to escape from them, Sansa’s fear about the approaching war grew even more, fear of the creatures that had caused many nightmares for her as a young child.

_Don’t think about that_ , she told herself firmly. _Jon has gone to get help. We will deal with it when they arrive._

Sansa and Bran had decided that it was too risky to send a raven to inform Jon about Bran’s arrival. They had sent messages to all of the houses of the North, to inform them about the return of another of Eddard Stark’s children, but they knew that if they sent word to Jon, then the letter could be intercepted by forces loyal to Cersei.

And having the Iron Throne aware that another Stark had returned to Winterfell, this one a potential heir to Jon if he should fall, was not something that Sansa wanted at all.

_No one is going to hurt my family again_ , she thought angrily, gripping the edge of the table. _Not Jon. Not Bran. Not anyone._

A knock at the door broke the silence, making all three of them jump slightly, everyone being lost in their own thoughts.

“Enter,” said Sansa, sitting up a little in the chair, trying to show an air of command as the Lady of Winterfell.

Maester Wolkan entered and bowed his head meekly.

“The feast is ready, my lady,” he said.

The first thing Sansa had done, before heading to the study with Bran and Meera, was to order a feast in celebration of Bran’s return, with all the remaining Northern lords in attendance. Many had already left to return to their homes, like Lords Manderly, Glover and Cerwyn, but some still remained, such as Lyanna Mormont.

Sansa smiled and stood up, turning to Bran.

“Are you ready?”

Bran nodded at her, a little nervously, before turning to Meera who smiled encouragingly at him. Wolkan backed out of the room and signalled to the two guardsmen outside, who then entered to help Bran down to the Great Hall. Sansa and Meera followed them down the stairs.

When they entered the hall, the lords all got to their feet and began to shout Bran’s name and welcoming him home, with many banging their goblets, adding to the din. Sansa smiled as Bran was carried past the shouting lords, all of whom looked pleased to see his return. They made their way to the high table, which today had three chairs, with Sansa and Meera sat on either side of Bran.

As they were seated, the lords all began to quieten, some slower than others. Sansa looked towards Bran and saw that he looked a little disconcerted by the level of praise and happiness that he was seeing.

_He has spent the last few years with only the Reeds and Hodor as company_ , Sansa thought, as she continued looking at her brother with concern. _This must be very strange for him. Maybe this feast wasn’t the best idea after all._

“Bran?” Sansa said, as she gripped his forearm gently. “Are you all right?”

He didn’t answer for a moment, which didn’t alleviate Sansa’s concern at all. Finally, he nodded slightly, before raising his hand to the assembled lords for silence. When they finally fell to silence, Bran raised his voice to address them.

“Thank you for that welcome, my lords,” said Bran commandingly, with a tone of voice that reminded Sansa of how she had been that he had ruled Winterfell in Robb’s stead when he marched south. “It has been far too long since I have been home and it feels good to once more be in the halls of Winterfell.”

A round of approving murmurs followed his words. Sansa looked at Bran, with a feeling of pride. He was clearly making use of all those lessons from their father and Maester Luwin about how a lord should behave.

“I know that it is tradition for the eldest male to succeed as the Lord of Winterfell and that many of you expect me to do so. However, I will not be becoming the Lord of Winterfell.”

A hush fell over the hall at Bran’s words and Sansa looked over and caught Meera’s eye, with them both wearing identical looks of confusion.

“Firstly, my brother Jon Snow, the King in the North, named Sansa as the Lady of Winterfell. As his younger brother, I will not be disobeying Jon’s commands.

“Secondly, I have been away from Winterfell for several years whereas Sansa has been here, knowing and understanding what has been happening in Winterfell and whole of the North. She is the better choice to rule over our home.”

There was another moment of stunned silence after he finished, but before long there was a stammered murmur of support for his reasoning. Bran nodded gratefully at the lords before indicating for them to begin their feasting. He leaned back and rested the back of his head against his chair and closed his eyes briefly, looking relieved.

“What was that Bran?” asked Sansa in a hushed voice.

“I meant what I said, Sansa,” replied Bran, as he looked her in the eye. “Jon knew what he was doing. You are the best choice to rule Winterfell. You have been here for longer than I have and you have the right knowledge and skills for the politics of the role, which I do not.

“Besides, even if I wanted to be the Lord of Winterfell, which I do not, I have other matters that I have to do. I am the Three-eyed Raven now, and I have to develop my warging and Greenseer abilities before the Night King arrives. I won’t have time to do that if I have to deal with the formalities of ruling Winterfell.

“So, don’t worry Sansa.” Bran continued as he took her hand in his and squeezed it gently. “You are the best choice, and Jon and I will support you, whenever and however you need us.”

Sansa smiled widely at Bran, fighting back her emotion at his revelations. She was overwhelmed at Bran’s loyalty and support for her, even when he legally had the greater claim.

However, at Bran’s mention of Jon, her mind was cast back to when he was named the King in the North. She remembered the feeling of jealousy that she had initially felt when she had heard the Northern lords chant for Jon. She had felt that everything that Littlefinger had warned her of was coming true.

Then Jon had named her the Lady of Winterfell, effectively giving her what Littlefinger had implied that Jon would take from her.

In that moment, Sansa had realised the stupidity of her feelings and felt ashamed of them. She had allowed Littlefinger to once again use his words to twist her feelings, turning her against Jon, one of the only people that had treated her with kindness and consideration since she had left Winterfell, and put her own ambitions above her loyalty to her own family.

The more Sansa had thought about it, the more she had seen the reasons _why_ the Northern lords had chosen Jon as their king. While she _had_ brought the Knights of the Vale to help win the battle, she had kept it secret from everyone, even Jon. On the other hand, Jon had been fully open and honest with everyone and had led the army into battle himself, which had garnered him a great deal of respect from the Northern people.

Sansa also knew that her marriages had not gone in her favour, rightly or wrongly. While neither were of her choosing, or consent, they had not endeared her to the Northern lords, as they had both been to enemies of the North. The first meeting with Lady Lyanna Mormont was clear proof of that, where she had questioned Sansa’s loyalty to her husbands’ families, Lannisters and Boltons.

Later that night, when she had returned to her chamber after the announcement, Sansa had resolved to stand by her brother and to put aside all those jealous feelings, born of Littlefinger’s scheming. They were a part of the old Sansa, the young girl that had left Winterfell for King’s Landing, infatuated with Prince Joffrey and her head full of foolish naivety about how the way the Seven Kingdoms truly worked. The girl that had allowed people like Baelish and Cersei to manipulate her into feeling things that suited their own whims, and not her own. She told herself that Littlefinger would not influence her or her decisions again, in any way.

Sansa brought herself out of her reverie and nodded at Bran, with a grateful look in her eye. Bran smiled warmly back at her before he turned to his plate and began to eat with such enthusiasm that Sansa smiled even more, knowing that it must have been months since he had eaten such a meal.

Sansa cast her eyes around the hall, over the assembled lords. She saw Lyanna Mormont deep in conversation with Lord Hornwood, looking both stern and curious. Sansa had developed a great deal of respect for Lyanna, due to her outspoken nature and her fierce loyalty.

Sansa continued to look over the hall… and her eyes met with Littlefinger.

He was staring up at her with an unreadable expression on his face, not even bothering with the food and wine in front of him, nor the several Vale lords trying to get his attention. Sansa held his gaze for a moment, with apprehension and anger bubbling up in the gut, before his look shifted, almost imperceptibly, to Bran. A sly look crossed his face as he returned his eyes back to Sansa, and he raised his eyebrows questioning.

Sansa, who knew all too well about how Littlefinger schemed at every opportunity, knew instantly the meaning of his look.

_He wants me to coerce Bran into something_ , she thought, with a jolt of disgust mingling with her anger now. _He wants me to turn on my brothers to help him._

Sansa maintained her gaze, now burning with the fury that was writhing like snakes within her, as she reached across and placed her arm around the back of Bran’s chair. It was an innocent act, one that no one in the hall would question if they had seen, but Sansa knew that Littlefinger caught the implication of it, her loyalty to her brother. His smug look faded slightly to be replaced by one of disappointment and something dark, that Sansa guessed was anger, which was rare to see on his face.

_I will not let him harm my brother_ , Sansa thought, as she refused to drop her scathing gaze from Baelish. _Either of them._

*

The following day, Sansa stood in the courtyard of Winterfell, feeling the brisk winter air across her skin. She had spent the morning continuing to coordinate the rebuilding of Winterfell and Winter Town, which had suffered heavily during the Ironborn occupation. It was an important task with winter approaching, as the population of Winter Town would grow vastly, with a great number of smallfolk heading to Winterfell to wait out the winter snows.

Sansa heard a noise behind her and turned to see Bran, carried by his two guardsmen, and Meera making their way towards her. She saw that they had both changed their Wildling furs for garments more suited for the noble status, which Sansa could see that neither of them looked very comfortable with.

Sansa had also noticed the closeness between Bran and Meera. They had not left each other’s side since they had arrived, always there to support and confide in the other. Sansa was pleased that, despite what Bran had dealt with and endured, he had found someone that he cared for, someone who clearly cared just as deeply for him too.

Sansa was impressed by Meera. She could clearly take care of herself and Bran, and had no problem in telling people what she thought. Sansa had also been impressed by the support and comfort that she clearly offered to Bran, as he always seemed more at ease when she was nearby.

Earlier that morning, before she had begun her duties, Sansa had written a letter to her father, Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch. She had heard much about him from her father. Howland had accompanied Eddard throughout the Rebellion, and had even been present during her father’s defeat of Ser Arthur Dayne.

Sansa had taken a while to make sure it was worded correctly before giving it to Maester Wolkan to send away.

_Lord Howland Reed,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health. We have never met but I have heard a great deal about you from my father, Lord Eddard Stark. He told me a great deal about friendship you shared and your loyalty to him during Robert’s Rebellion._

_I am writing to tell you that your daughter Meera has arrived back at Winterfell in good health with my brother Brandon, after they travelled north of the Wall together. I know that they travelled with your son Jojen, and I am sad to say that he didn’t return with them. You have both my personal condolences and that of House Stark for your loss, my lord._

_I invite you to come to Winterfell to meet with your daughter, and you will be extended the same hospitality of House Stark that Meera has for the duration of your stay._

_I hope to see you soon,_

_Sansa Stark,_

_Lady of Winterfell._

 

Bran and Meera come to stop in front of her, and Sansa smiled warmly at them.

“Are you ready?” Sansa asked, growing a little solemn as she looked at Bran.

He nodded resolutely at her, as Meera looked at him concerned. Sansa returned Bran’s nod as they turned and headed towards the crypt, to visit Rickon.

Sansa hadn’t been down there yet. She hadn’t been able to face the fact that her youngest sibling was gone, that little Rickon was in fact dead. However, she had decided that now was the best time, now that she had someone other than Jon to confide her feelings about his death to.

They descended the stairs to the crypt, soon having to rely on the torch for any light at all. When they reached the bottom of the staircase they made their way along the lines of stone statues of long dead Starks, with Sansa examining the stone visages of her ancestors, the former Kings of Winter, feeling a sense of relief and surprise that they had remained untouched during both the Ironborn and Bolton occupations of Winterfell.

Before long they reached faces that they recognised. First came Lord Rickard Stark, their grandfather, alongside his children Brandon and Lyanna. Sansa knew that her father had broken tradition by having statues made of his siblings, but now that she was in a similar position, it made her respect him all the more. She and Jon had decided to have statues made of Robb and Rickon, as well as Eddard and Catelyn.

They stopped in front of the statue of their father. The similarity was so striking that Sansa’s breath caught in her throat and tears burned at the corner of her eyes, as she thought warmly of her father. His gruff, comforting voice calming her after a nightmare, his strong arms picking her up after a fall.

Sansa shook her head slightly to dispel the memories as she looked to the tombs behind the statue. She knew that, apart from Rickon’s, they were empty. Her father’s remains hadn’t arrived at Winterfell before its fall to the Ironborn and the Freys had done horrific things to Robb and her mother’s corpses, and would never return them.

_Don’t think about that!_ Sansa scolded herself, as tears of anger filled her eyes as she thought of the Red Wedding. _The Freys will get what they deserve in time._

Sansa stood next to Rickon’s tomb and laid a hand on it, feeling the cold stone against her palm. As she did so, the grief and loss that she had been holding back since Rickon’s death burst out of her. Not caring who saw, Sansa allowed the tears to fall. She dimly noticed that the guardsmen placed Bran next to her, before backing away to give them some privacy.

After a few minutes, Sansa’s tears slowly slightly. Breathing deeply, she turned towards Bran and saw blearily, through her tear-filled eyes, that he had laid his head on the top of the tomb, his shoulder shaking slightly with what she knew were silent sobs. Sansa crouched down and pulled him into a hug, feeling his slim frame shake with his sobs against her and the shoulder of her dress become damp with his tears. But Sansa didn’t care. She only cared about comforting her brother through their shared grief.

Sansa noticed that Meera had moved a little closer and had placed a comforting hand on Bran’s back. Sansa caught her eye and gave her a grateful nod and smile, after seeing once again the comfort that she provided Bran, which Meera returned.

They stayed that way for some time, three people helping each other come to terms with their losses, before Bran pulled away from Sansa’s embrace. Sansa saw him drag his cuff across his eyes, furiously wiping away his tears.

“This is my fault,” said Bran thickly, returning his gaze to his little brother’s tomb. “I should have brought him with me. Then he wouldn’t have fallen into Ramsay’s hands.”

“Bran,” said Sansa, a little sternly, taking hold of his wrist. “This is _not_ your fault. Sending Rickon to Last Hearth with Osha was the smart decision with you heading North of the wall. We thought that the Umbers were loyal to us. You couldn’t have known that they would betray him to Ramsay _or_ that Ramsay would then kill him.”

“Sansa is right, Bran,” said Meera consolingly. “If we had brought Rickon with us, who knows if he would have survived what we went through. He might have died at Craster’s or when the Night King attacked the cave.”

Bran stared at Rickon’s tomb for a moment, not acknowledging their words, before he nodded, a little grudgingly.

“I just can’t help but feel like I should have done more,” he said, in a quiet, grief-filled voice.

“Me too, Bran,” confided Sansa. “When Jon and I were planning the assault on Winterfell, Jon was the only one convinced that we could save him. To me, Rickon was dead the moment that Ramsay had him. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. But I can’t help but feel that I should have been focused more on saving my brother, rather than defeating Ramsay, like Jon was.”

Sansa and Bran locked eyes and shared in their guilt and grief for a moment, before Meera interrupted.

“Nothing that either of you did caused Rickon’s death,” Meera stated firmly, as she took a step towards them. “Sansa, from what you have said about Ramsay then it is probably true that Rickon was dead when he had him, as he was a threat to his rule. Nothing you did or didn’t do after that meant that he died.

“And, Bran,” she continued as she turned to him, his eyes shining up at her through the gloom. “Taking Rickon with us wouldn’t have kept him safe. He would have been in danger the whole time, so you can’t think that bringing him with us would have kept him alive.

“The only people responsible for Rickon’s death are Ramsay and the Umbers. Not either of you two.”

Sansa and Bran remained silent after her proclamation, both looking into space, deliberately not making eye contact with each other.

While Sansa couldn’t help feeling the guilt, Rickon had been her brother after all, the logic of Meera’s words did get through to her. Sansa nodded briefly, acknowledging her argument, seeing Bran doing the same out of the corner of her eye.

Taking a deep breath, Sansa pushed down her guilt, knowing that they needed to keep their heads clear for the time being while they prepared, without any distractions.

“Meera is right, Bran,” Sansa said, nodding at her gratefully. “We need to focus on helping Jon now, to prepare for the Night King’s arrival.”

“Sansa…” said Bran hesitantly, looking at his hands nervously. “There is something you should know… about Jon. He is-”

“Bran!” interrupted Meera sharply. “I think that Jon should be the first to know. It does affect him the most after all, it is his life.”

Sansa looked between the two of them, extremely confused about what they could know about Jon that would so profoundly change his life. After a moment, where he was clearly thinking hard about Meera’s suggestion, Bran nodded.

“You are right, Meera. I am sorry Sansa, but this secret needs to be told to Jon first, before anyone else.”

Sansa looked at him for a moment, severely tempted to press for the answer. They were family after all, and what affected Jon would affect them all. But her temptation passed when she saw the resolute look on her brother’s face, a look that she knew from their childhood meant that Bran was not going to drop this.

“All right, Bran,” said Sansa, nodding. “We will do this your way. We can tell Jon when he returns from Dragonstone.”

With that they signalled the guardsmen to pick up Bran and they made their way back through the crypt, passing past their ancestors. After a few minutes of climbing the staircase, they came back into the courtyard, its chilly air greeting them.

Sansa turned to see Bran looking round him, taking the towers and spires of Winterfell with a wistful smile on his face. Sensing her gaze, Bran turned to her.

“It still feels so strange to be back here, after so long being away from home.”

“I know the feeling,” replied Sansa, mirroring his smile. “I lived here with the Bolton’s occupying it and it never felt really like home. But now, since Jon and I took it back, it truly feels like _home_ again.”

“I saw Jon, you know,” said Bran suddenly, startling Sansa with this revelation. “At a Wildling camp, that I later learned was called Craster’s Keep. We had been captured there after I saw that Ghost had been put into a cage.

“Before long, Jon arrived with some members of the Night’s Watch to deal with the deserters there. I watched him fighting them, trying to call to him, but he couldn’t hear me. While I knew that it couldn’t happen, with the vows that Jon had taken and my journey to find the Three-eyed Raven, I couldn’t help but think that if he found me that we could go home, together.”

Bran trailed off, looking around the courtyard once more. Sansa looked at him with a sense of sadness and understanding. She knew exactly how he had felt, looking for any hope, any possible way, to come home with her family. And then, once she _had_ been able to come home, it was in the company of the family that had betrayed and killed her brother and mother.

_It has been a long road for the both of us to get here_ , she thought, still looking at Bran.

“I am going to go to the godswood,” said Bran finally, addressing the guardsmen carrying him. “I haven’t been there since I returned.”

Sansa nodded at him as the guardsmen carried him away, with Meera following close by. She watched them go for a moment, her smile lingering on her face.

A horn from the South Gate caught Sansa’s attention and she made her way towards it, passing several guardsmen and smallfolk who were looking towards the lowering gate with expressions of interest.

As Sansa grew closer she saw two people enter, and a smile returned to Sansa’s face at the sight. Even though they were on horseback, and glad in armour, Sansa recognised the sight of Brienne of Tarth and Podrick Payne, even at this distance. They had heard about the Lannister victory at Riverrun and the death of the Blackfish, but there had been no word of Brienne and Podrick. Until now.

Sansa sped up slightly, as she saw Brienne and Podrick dismount from their horses and began to lead them to the stables. When she grew close to them, they both dropped down onto one knee before her.

“Lady Sansa,” said Brienne dutifully.

“Rise, Lady Brienne,” said Sansa happily. “It is good to see you again. And you too Podrick.”

“Thank you, my lady,” said Podrick nervously, as he too rose to his feet. “You, too, my lady.”

“I am sorry, Lady Sansa,” said Brienne sorrowfully, as she hung her head. “I failed in my task. I couldn’t persuade the Blackfish to come north to aid you.”

“I know, Lady Brienne,” replied Sansa, consolingly. “I received your raven. Mother had told me of her uncle’s stubbornness and his loyalty to his family. It didn’t come as a surprise when he refused to come north.”

“He helped us to escape, my lady,” said Podrick. “While the gate was lowered to allow the Lannister forces into Riverrun, the Blackfish led us to a small boat.”

“The gate was lowered?” asked Sansa, completely baffled. “Why would the gate be lowered? Riverrun could withstand a siege for months.”

“Your uncle Edmure ordered it, I believe,” answered Brienne, looking at Sansa apologetically. “He has been held captive since the Red Wedding. He probably just wanted to make the torment stop.”

Sansa fell silent for a moment, trying to comprehend the information she had just received. She couldn’t believe that Edmure would betray his family like that, and led to his own uncle’s death.

_But, then, I don’t know what happened to him while he was captured_ , reasoned Sansa. _Like Brienne says, maybe he was treated so badly that doing the Lannister’s bidding might improve his situation._

“Well,” said Brienne slowly, clearly trying to find a way to change the subject slightly. “It seems as though you didn’t need the Blackfish and his men after all.”

“No,” said Sansa, latching onto the change of subject gratefully. “They would have been useful but we managed to win all the same.”

“And your brother is the King in the North?” asked Brienne, looking questioningly at her.

“Yes” replied Sansa. “He has sailed to Dragonstone to negotiate an alliance with the Dragon Queen, Daenerys Targaryen.”

Brienne eyes widened at this and Podrick took a step back in shock.

“Well,” said Brienne, clearly reeling from this news. “It seems that your brother is not one for taking half measures.”

“No, he is not,” replied Sansa, smiling warmly at them. “Come with me. Let’s find you both some quarters so you can rest.”

“Thank you, my lady,” said Podrick gratefully, as Brienne nodded her agreement.

“Excuse me, Lady Sansa,” came a silky voice from behind her, that sent a shiver of annoyance and disgust through her. “I was wondering if I could interrupt.”

With a sense of distaste rising within her, Sansa turned to see Littlefinger standing behind her, a smug smile on his face. Sansa returned his smug look with one of anger and contempt.

“How can I help you?” asked Sansa curtly, hoping that her tone conveyed that she would rather help Cersei at this point than Baelish.

“I was hoping to talk with you,” he replied, either not noticing her tone or not caring to acknowledge it. Sansa wasn’t sure which one was more infuriating.

Sansa nodded and began to follow him over to a secluded corner of the courtyard, after signalling to Brienne and Podrick to follow them.

_I am not going to be alone with him ever again_ , she thought with a shudder, as she remembered their conversation in the godswood.

As they reached a semi-secluded corner of the courtyard, Sansa motioned for Brienne to stay a little back from the two of them. They were close enough to act if anything should happen, but far enough away to give the illusion of privacy. Sansa stopped and faced him, with her arms folded across her chest.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

“I wanted to speak with you,” he replied politely, holding his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. “It seems like you have been avoiding me.”

“I have,” replied Sansa, shrugging unapologetically. “I have nothing to say to you, so I stayed as far from you as I could.”

At this Littlefinger’s nostrils flared slightly, and Sansa smirked a little at seeing his mask of smug disinterest slip slightly.

“Have you given any thought to what I told you?” he countered, with a bite of venom in his voice now. “I told you that you might need an army of your own someday. It looks as if that day has come, with your half-brother as King now, with the full control of the North. If you had listened to me-”

“Stop!” snapped Sansa aggressively, taking a step towards him. “I know what you are implying. Jon hasn’t turned on me. He didn’t _choose_ to be made the King in the North. The Northern lords chose _him_.

“And then, when he was made king, the first thing Jon did was to make me the Lady of Winterfell. My _brother_ trusts me, and I trust him. Your schemes and words won’t turn us against one another.”

“Think about it Sansa,” he implored with a note of desperation in his voice now, as he reached out for her hand, causing her to recoil away from his touch. “You know my plan. You can still play a part in it. We can take the Iron Throne _together_. Now your brother Bran has returned we could manipulate the situation, gain support for _him_ to be named King in the-”

He didn’t finish his sentence as Sansa took a step forward and slapped him across the face as hard as she could. The force that she had put into the blow jarred her wrist slightly, but she was pleased to see that it had hurt Baelish a lot more. He staggered back a step or two, clutching at his face, looking completely bemused.

Sansa stood staring at him, breathing hard.

“Don’t you _dare_ threaten my family!” she said furiously.

“Is there something you need from me, Lady Sansa?” asked Brienne loudly, who, Sansa saw, had approached with sword drawn.

“Yes,” replied Sansa, turning back to Littlefinger, her anger still blazing inside her and her heart beating almost painfully fast. “Restrain him.”

Brienne sheathed her sword and approached Littlefinger, who raised his arms in a futile attempt to defend himself. Brienne seized the man by the throat and pinned him against the wall. Sansa watched for a moment as his face began to redden, the part of his face not covered by a red, hand-shaped welt.

Sansa approached him and looked him dead in the eye, noticing a look of panic in their usual unreadable green depths.

“You have done a lot for me,” began Sansa, steadily. “You helped me to escape from my torment in King’s Landing and helped me get to the Vale, even if you did then hand me over to the Boltons.”

He squirmed slightly at this, and Sansa remembered their meeting at Mole’s Town, where he profusely denied any knowledge of Ramsay’s actions and expressed his apologies. Sansa dismissed the thought as soon as it arrived. She cared little for his discomfort over her experiences or his flimsy apologies.

“Because of what you have done for me, however little it truly was, and out of respect for your role as Guardian of the Lord of the Vale, you are being given a last warning. But know that this will be your _final_ , and only, warning.”

Sansa stood directly in front of him and leaned forward slightly, so that she filled his vision and he could see, as well as hear, how serious she was in this warning.

“If I even suspect that you are making a move, _any_ move, against my family, I will have you executed. Do you understand me?”

Baelish simply stared at her for a moment, completely shocked. Brienne shook him slightly, causing him to turn an even deeper shade of red.

“Lady Stark asked you a question,” she snarled, inches from his face. “Answer it!”

Baelish said nothing but nodded his head jerkily. Sansa nodded to Brienne, who let go of his throat. Littlefinger fell to the floor in a heap, gasping for air and massaging his throat. Sansa straightened up and folded her hands in front of her.

“That will be all, Lord Baelish,” she said with mock politeness.

Littlefinger scrambled to his feet and hurried away, without a backwards glance. Brienne watched him pass her with undisguised hatred on her face and Sansa watched his retreating form for a moment, trying not to feel too pleased with herself. Sansa was well aware that she might have made things worse rather than better.

“Executed?” questioned Brienne, drawing Sansa’s attention. “You’re going to execute him?”

Sansa smiled reassuringly at Brienne, who was looking a little concerned, and placed a hand on her armour-clad forearm.

“Before Jon left for Dragonstone, he gave me a writ that allows me to act against Littlefinger with Jon’s full authority as King. Jon told me that if I suspected Littlefinger was up to anything, then I should imprison him.”

“So, you aren’t going to have him killed?” replied Brienne, looking extremely relieved.

“No, Brienne,” said Sansa patiently, maintaining her reassuring smile. “But Littlefinger doesn’t need to know that.”

Catching onto the meaning of Sansa’s words, Brienne smiled widely, vigorously nodding her approval, causing Sansa to laugh at her enthusiasm.

“Come now, Brienne,” said Sansa, as she took Brienne’s armour-clad arm in her own. “Let us find you and Podrick some suitable chambers.”

*

Later that evening, after Sansa had found Brienne and Podrick some suitable chambers and dined with Bran and Meera, informing them about the latest developments with Littlefinger as she did so, Sansa made her way to her chambers, ready to put the day behind her.

As she bathed, she thought back to her confrontation with Littlefinger, and once again wondered what the consequences of her actions would be. Baelish was never one whose actions could be easily predicted and Sansa was completely unsure about what he would do.

It wasn’t like her rejection of him was a new occurrence, as she had in fact done so multiple times, but never physically. Sansa wondered if that would mark a change in the way Littlefinger acted towards her or was he so deluded and obsessed in his plan that he would ignore it?

All Sansa knew was that the constant thinking about all the possible outcomes of what Baelish would do was starting to give her a headache.

_That is enough thinking about it for one night_ , Sansa admonished herself, as she rose from the now lukewarm water and began to dry herself. _I will not give that man any more thought than he deserves: none at all._

Before long, Sansa settled herself into her comfortable bed and allowed sleep to take her.

However, she wouldn’t rest long.

Sansa was awoken from her slumber by the sound of her door crashing open, causing her to sit up and look wildly around her. It took her a moment to realise that Meera had come running into her room. Sansa saw vaguely that the two guards that Jon had insisted be posted outside her room were still there, so they must have let her in.

“Sansa,” Meera panted, clearly out of breath. “It’s Bran.”

Sansa jumped out of bed and strode across the room in a frantic rush.

“What about Bran?” she asked fearfully, terrified that this was Littlefinger’s vengeance.

“He’s fine,” Meera said, holding up her hand to calm Sansa. “He had a vision and said that you needed to know about it.”

Sansa nodded as she grabbed a cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders before she followed Meera out of the room, her guardsmen falling into step behind her. As they made their way through the darkened corridors, the stone floor icy cold against her bare feet, Sansa became aware of what Meera had said.

_If Bran had a vision in his sleep_ , Sansa pondered. _How did Meera know about it? Her guest quarters are several floors away from his chamber._

As she realised that Meera must have been with Bran during his slumber, Sansa broke into a wide smile. But she knew that this was not the time nor the place to discuss such matters.

It didn’t take them long to reach Bran’s room and when she entered, Sansa saw that he was sat bolt upright in his bed, staring at the door. As Bran saw her, Sansa saw him relax slightly. Sansa rushed to his side and took one of his hands in hers.

“What’s wrong, Bran?” asked Sansa, concerned. “What did you see?”

“I saw Arya,” he said, his features brightening at the words.

Sansa’s heart skipped a beat.

_Arya._

No one had heard from Arya since the day that their father had been executed outside the Sept of Baelor. No rumours or whisperings of any kind. It was almost too much to hope that Bran _had_ in fact seen her.

“What do you mean, Bran?” asked Sansa, desperately trying to keep her expectations in check and failing miserably.

“I saw her,” he repeated. “I had a vision of Arya walking through the woods, surrounded by a group of men with flaming swords and a large dog with a burned face.”

Sansa mulled over his words, trying to process them and understand what he meant by it. She had no idea what or who the men with flaming swords were but the dog, that was a different matter.

“Sandor Clegane,” she whispered, almost to herself.

“What?” Bran asked, looking confused.

“Sandor Clegane,” Sansa repeated, louder now in her conviction. “You remember him? The Hound. He has a burnt face. He is with Arya and this group with the flaming swords.”

A small spell of silence followed her words, as the three of them tried to understand the consequences of that.

“Will she be all right?” asked Meera, in a small, concerned voice. “Is her being with this ‘Hound’ a good thing? Will he keep her safe?”

“He has before,” recalled Sansa, remembering Brienne’s tale of how she had crossed paths with Arya and the Hound. “I hope he will again.”

“What about the flaming swords though?” asked Meera. “Any ideas about them?”

Both Bran and Sansa shook their heads, with similar looks of despair and concern.

“She will be fine,” declared Bran confidently. “If she has lasted this long by herself, then I am sure Arya can handle these people, whoever they are. Especially if she has the Hound with her.”

“Arya always was a tough one,” agreed Sansa nodding slightly, despite the nagging concern in the pit of her stomach. “I’m sure she will be fine.”

_I hope_

 


	9. Jaime I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone.   
> Let me know what you think of the chapter.  
> Next up will be Dany

 

Jaime

 

As the sun rose over King’s Landing, Jaime stood on his balcony overlooking the various city districts, with the uneven rooftops and lopsided chimney stacks of Flea Bottom visible in the distance. Even from this distance, Jaime could see the maze of alleys that ran through the district, with the buildings that lined the alleys leaning over to touch at their apex.

Jaime turned his head this way and that, taking in all the various sights and landmarks of the city. From the colossal Dragonpit, set high up on Rhaenys’ Hill, to the bustling harbour and the nearby Fishmonger’s Square. Despite living in King’s Landing for much of his adult life, Jaime still found some enjoyment in looking over the city from one of the windows of the Red Keep, high on Aegon’s Hill. One of the only problems with that was that, even while being so high, is that the smell of sewage and shit still found its way into the nose.

Jaime looked even further and his eyes fell upon the vast, jagged crater on Visenya’s Hill when the Sept of Baelor had once stood. While Jaime was not a particularly pious man, he had admired the Sept, with its white marble structure and seven crystal towers. Now all that stood on the hill was a reminder of all the people who had died in the explosion.

As he looked over at the debris, anger rose up in Jaime’s gut. When he had arrived back in King’s Landing from the Riverlands with Bronn, the site was still smoking from the explosion, causing a dark plume to rise into the sky, often threatening to block out the sun for moments at a time.

Jaime had raced back to the Red Keep, terrified that Cersei had been inside when it had exploded, for her trial by the Faith. When he had arrived at the Keep, he had walked into the Main Hall to witness her coronation. She had been sitting proudly on the Iron Throne, crown perched on her golden hair, her legions of red garbed Lannister soldiers forming an imposing wall around the assembled smallfolk and her loyal servant Qyburn standing at her side.

Jaime had met his twin’s eye and had instantly suspected that she was behind the destruction. The more he had thought about it, the more it had made sense for Cersei to be behind it. She had despised the Faith and the High Sparrow for their actions, not least for her Walk of Atonement, humiliating her in front of the populace of King’s Landing.

Jaime had become certain of her guilt when he found out that Margaery and Loras Tyrell were among the casualties. The Tyrells had never been her favourite people, especially Margaery, even after the alliance had been forged between them. Cersei had loathed the young queen for the influence that she had cultivated over both of her sons.

Jaime’s anger had heightened even further when he had learned about the deaths of Kevan and Lancel Lannister. While Lancel had joined the Sparrows, and become a religious zealot with no regard for his family, he was still their cousin, still their family. Kevan was their uncle, one of their father’s most trusted commanders and confidants. The fact that Cersei had been willing to kill members of her own family, purely to gain revenge against the High Sparrow and the Tyrells, disgusted Jaime.

What had made it worse was the way she had done it, with Aerys Targaryen’s forgotten wildfire caches. When the Mad King had attempted to do something similar, at the end of the Rebellion, Jaime had slaughtered him and his pyromancer, Rossart. And now his sister, the woman he had loved for much of his life, had actually completed the act that the Mad King himself had attempted.

Jaime massaged his forehead with his left hand, trying to calm himself. His angry thoughts about Cersei’s actions needed to be kept in check, especially with him serving on Cersei’s Small Council, alongside Qyburn. Jaime didn’t think that she would harm him, although her actions had become a lot more unpredictable of late, so he couldn’t be sure.

Cersei had started to rule over the city with an iron fist, imposing a curfew and vicious punishments for any transgression. Whenever Jaime walked the streets, everywhere he looked he saw solders clad in Lannister red. They lined most of the major thoroughfares through the city, with many others patrolling the streets. They had been ordered to watch for any displays of dissent against Cersei’s rule. Those who were deemed as unruly and dissenting against the new Queen were grabbed in the dead of night by a squad of soldiers, their families also taken more often than not.

_I am sure she gives them to Qyburn_ , thought Jaime, bitterly. _For whatever twisted experiment he is working on now_.

Jaime’s mind drifted to the Mountain, or rather the monstrous form of whatever Qyburn had turned the man who had formerly been Gregor Clegane into. While he had never been very civilised or talkative before his fight with Oberyn Martell, he now just lumbered around the Keep alongside Cersei, following her every whim.

_If that is what he had done to the Mountain, what is he doing with all these people that Cersei gives him?_ Jaime wondered, as he questioned whether he truly wanted to know the answer.

Jaime, lost in his thoughts, reached out to absent-mindedly scratch the itch on his right palm.  It was only when he failed to make any contact that he looked down to his wrist, to see the absence of his hand.

Jaime sighed deeply and shook his head. He had heard many stories that people who lost their limbs still felt them there, as though they had never been removed. Jaime hadn’t given much thought to them before but since Locke had taken his hand he too sometimes felt as though his sword hand had never gone, especially when he was lost in thought or waking from sleep, often feeling an itch or a sudden urge to flex his non-existent fingers.

It was only when he looked to his wrist, as he was now, that he remembered the blinding pain when Locke had sliced though his wrist, the constant agony he had endured while being transported to Harrenhal. And then it had been Qyburn, oddly enough, that had stitched up his wrist and stopped the infection from spreading down his arm.

Jaime sighed again as turned away from the balcony and back into his chambers. He looked around at the ornate furniture, the vast bed and the countless banners and tapestries, all in Lannister red and gold. While he had long become accustomed to such lavish decorations, living in Casterly Rock and the Red Keep all of his life, but it didn’t decrease his feeling that they were far too gaudy or unnecessary.

Cersei had asked him to share her chambers in Maegor’s Holdfast, to continue their relationship like the Targaryens had done but Jaime had refused her. While he still held some affection for her, the actions that she had taken, and was continuing the take, had taken their toll. He couldn’t help but compare her, with poor results, to the woman he remembered from their younger years, the woman that he had fallen in love with.

Cersei had taken his rejection of her better than he had expected, although she had treated him coolly since then. It reminded him of when he had finally returned to the capital with Brienne of Tarth, after weeks of travelling, when Cersei had been incredibly cold to him for weeks after.

The thought of Brienne brought a warm smile to Jaime’s face, as he thought of his friend. The last he had seen her, she and Podrick had been sailing away from Riverrun under the cover of darkness. Jaime had been worried that she would be seen by one of the Lannister archers, but he had been lucky that the darkness had swallowed them from sight before long. He would have been able to talk down anyone who might see them and prevent their deaths but it would have caused rumours to spread about his loyalty to Cersei and the crown if he was helping Brienne, who was sworn to Sansa Stark.

Jaime walked to one of the tables in his chamber, upon which his golden hand rested. He had become used to putting on the hand and removing it by now, so much so that he no longer needed any aid. As he fastened the leather strap to keep it attached to his forearm, he turned the hand allowing it to catch the light from a few dimly lit candles that were still dimly burning from the night before.

There was a soft knock at the door.

“Enter,” Jaime called, as he settled himself behind his desk.

A small, timid looking messenger entered. The boy could have only been in his mid-teens and Jaime suspected that this was one of Varys’ former little birds. Once Qyburn had been made the Master of Whisperers, he had quickly gained the assistance of many of the eunuch’s former aides. However, there were countless more that they didn’t know about, ones that were still loyal to Varys, in his new role alongside the Targaryen girl, who had recently landed at Dragonstone.

“Queen Cersei has called a meeting of the Small Council, my lord,” the boy stammered.

“Thank you,” said Jaime. “You are dismissed.”

As the boy bowed and exited, Jaime sighed and looked up to the ceiling. If Cersei was calling a meeting at this time of the day, then something serious must of happened. And, based on her actions of late, then it would probably have enraged her.

_This is going to be tiring_ , thought Jaime with a sigh. _When she is angry, she is far more likely to lash out and less likely to listen to reason._

Resolving himself for the worst, Jaime rose from his desk and exited his chambers, making his way to the Tower of the Hand. As he made his way through the corridors, newly decorated to have the Lannister lion looking down from everywhere, and passed by the servants and other inhabitants of the keep, he noticed the looks they were giving him, that of fear and distrust. He had become used to these looks ever since he had killed the Mad King, earning his moniker of the ‘Kingslayer’, but it had been happening with even greater regularity lately.

Ever since he had returned, and Cersei’s coronation, there had been a constant sense of hopelessness and fear throughout the capital, that hung over the city like a storm cloud. It had only been heightened by the measures that Cersei had been putting into place, finding its way into every conversation and interaction, with people wondering who they could trust and constantly looking over their shoulder for the sight of any oncoming Lannister guards.  

_That is how uprisings start_ , thought Jaime, as he watched a few servants pass him, none of whom bothering to hide their contempt for him.

Before long Jaime entered the Small Council chamber, and looked at those waiting for him.

Cersei sat at the head of the table, sitting up straight as an arrow in her chair, her crown perched once more on her head. Jaime had often wondered if she even bothered to take it off. The Mountain stood behind her, a massive gloved hand clasped around the hilt of his huge sword, giving no reaction to Jaime’s approach.

As he grew closer to his sister, he saw that she was looking quite unwell. She looked exhausted, with large dark rings under her glassy emerald eyes, and as Jaime sat down next to her he caught the smell of wine off of her.

_She is still struggling to sleep_ , though Jaime, feeling a little concern for her.

A week after his return, Jaime had overheard Cersei talking to Qyburn, informing him of her trouble sleeping, plagued by nightmares of her children’s deaths. He had given her various potions and medicines, most notably essence of nightshade, but they had clearly not worked.

Jaime seated himself to Cersei’s left, opposite the only other member of the Council. Cersei had named Qyburn as the Hand of the Queen, in addition to his previous role as the Master of Whisperers. Soon after Cersei had pressured the Citadel into making him the new Grand Maester after the death of Pycelle, under threat of Oldtown seeing the might of the Lannister army first hand if they refused.

Jaime had already been the Lord Commander of the Queensguard, but Cersei had soon made him both the Master of Coin and the Master of Laws, neither of which had pleased him. Jaime had become convinced that Cersei had picked their roles to be as deliberately controversial as possible.

Qyburn had been expelled from the Citadel for conducting experiments that had been, according to the man himself, ‘too daring’. Having seen the fruits of his labour dealing with the Mountain, Jaime shuddered to think what Qyburn would think as ‘daring’.

Jaime also found it ironic that he had been named the Master of Laws, seeing as he had broken several of the most serious crimes in Westeros. He had murdered both Aerys Targaryen and his own cousin Alton, had been involved in an incestuous relationship with Cersei since they were teenagers and, his worst crime according to many, he had broken his sworn oath to his king.

As for him being made the Master of Coin, as much as he tried Jaime couldn’t understand Cersei’s decision. He had been a soldier for his whole life, training with blade rather than his mind.

_That was what Tyrion did_ , though Jaime, a little bitterly. He still was angry at his brother for the murder of their father.

Jaime had struggled with the finances of the realm, so much so he had to employ multiple people to help him even understand the facts and figures on the page. The Lannister family coffers had run dry some time ago, Cersei had informed him. The Lannister gold mines had long since run dry and any other income was negligible at best. The crown was almost destitute at this point.

But Cersei hadn’t seemed to care whenever he had tried to broach the subject with her, which had caused an idea to begin to fester at the back of Jaime’s mind. He was beginning to think that Cersei didn’t much care about the security and wellbeing of the realm. He suspected that the entire Seven Kingdoms could fall into ruin and she wouldn’t care at all, as long as she sat upon the Iron Throne.

Not a comforting thought at all.

Jaime looked down the long table, and knew that there should be at least several more faces at this table, to help them shoulder the burdens of running a kingdom. Although Euron Greyjoy, through their recent alliance, had become the Master of Ships in all but name, two members of the Small Council was a woeful number of advisors to the ruler of the realm. A shortcoming that was becoming more and more evident as the days went by.

Jaime turned to his sister, and met her tired eyes.

“So,” he said slowly. “What is this meeting about?”

“News from the North, my lord,” replied Qyburn. “The Boltons have been removed from Winterfell by Sansa Stark and her bastard brother, Jon Snow. Snow has since been named the King in the North.”

Jaime was silent for a moment, absorbing the magnitude of this news. He though back to his visit to Winterfell while serving under Robert Baratheon, all those years ago. He vaguely remembered Jon Snow, Eddard Stark’s bastard. As he thought more, their discussion the Winterfell courtyard came back to him, with a twinge of shame, as he remembered how he had subtly mocked the boy for his decision to join the Night’s Watch.

And now he was a king.

_What a tale this is!_ Jaime thought, a ghost of a smirk crossing his face.

“When did this happen?” asked Cersei acidly, her eyes narrowed at the look on Jaime’s face.

“A few weeks ago, Your Grace.” Qyburn replied, looking a little nervous.

“And why am I just learning this now?” she demanded, her voice full of venom.

“My spies are located in the capital, Your Grace. Any of Varys’ ‘little birds’ that are in the North, remain his. And seeing as the whole of the North has sworn their fealty to Snow, we have little to no allies up there to send us news.”

“Fucking bastard!” shrieked Cersei, spitting onto the floor. “Him and his murderous whore sister!”

Jaime stayed silent, inwardly marvelling at Cersei’s ignorance in this matter. He had not spoken to Sansa often during her time in King’s Landing, but he was sure that she hadn’t killed Joffrey, despite the malice with which he had treated her. While Joffrey had been his son, Jaime knew that he had been a monster, someone who could have been spoken in the same way as Aerys, if he had lived longer. He certainly wasn’t the son that deserved the level of devotion that Cersei had lavished upon him from a young age, which undoubtedly had not helped his spoiled, arrogant belief that he could do and say as he wished.

“You know,” said Jaime slowly, as a thought struck him. “It seems like Jon and Sansa might have done you a favour, Cersei. You said that Roose had betrayed you by marrying Sansa to his son. Now they are dead, it saves you the trouble of doing it yourself.”

“Roose died around a month before the battle, Lord Jaime,” said Qyburn, leaning forward slightly. “Ramsay Bolton became the Lord in his place, and it is he who was defeated by the Starks. He was killed in the battle by-”

“I don’t care!” screamed Cersei, slamming her hand onto the table top, sending a flagon of wine crashing to the floor. “Jon Snow is nothing but the bastard spawn of the traitor Eddard Stark, and Sansa nothing but a murderous, treacherous whore. I don’t care what those backward Northerners call them, I am the true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Of course, you are, Your Grace,” said Qyburn, bowing his head in a simpering display of loyalty. “Snow and all his supporters are traitors to the realm and you will crush them under the might of House Lannister.”

Jaime looked back and forth between the two of them, completely unbelieving. Qyburn had a look of pathetic obedience on his face as he was clearly trying to maintain his position, in the favour of the Queen. Cersei was wearing a look of triumph and confidence that, if he was honest, chilled Jaime to the bone.

As he looked between them, he was struck by how familiar the situation was, although he couldn’t place why.

And it came to him.

The interactions between Cersei and Qyburn were eerily similar to that of Aerys Targaryen and his favourite pyromancer, and later Hand of the King, Rossart. The obsessive monarch, completely convinced that what they were doing was within their power and right as the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, and the subservient underling, who said whatever the ruler wanted to hear to maintain their position and suit their own needs.

_The last time I saw something like this, I killed a king,_ thought Jaime morosely, looking at where his sword hand once was, now replaced by one of golden metal. _I hope I will not have to repeat that._

An urgent knock at the door broke the silence. The Mountain tensed slightly and Qyburn got up to answer it. Jaime glanced at Cersei, as she poured herself a glass of wine. He was beginning to become very concerned about her behaviour.

She clearly wasn’t sleeping well, if at all. She was still drinking heavily. And she was listening to Qyburn’s honeyed words, which only fed her feelings of paranoia and entitlement.

Jaime saw Qyburn return to the table with a roll of parchment in his hand and a look of grave concern and anxiety on his face.

“Y-Your Grace,” he began, fumbling on his words slightly. He had been clearly unsettled by the news he had received. “I have received news regarding Jon Snow.”

“Well, what is it?” demanded Cersei sharply.

“He has travelled to Dragonstone, my Queen,” said the maester. For the first time, he looked petrified. “It appears he is negotiating with Daenerys Targaryen.”

Jaime couldn’t control his surprise at the news. The Starks and the Targaryens had a lot of bad blood between them, so much that it had caused a civil war. And yet here they were, years later, potentially sitting down to discuss terms against the crown.

Jaime looked at Cersei, and saw her face contorted into a mask of pure rage and hatred. He remembered the last time he had seen that look, a few weeks ago, when news had reached them of Daenerys Targaryen’s landing on Dragonstone. Cersei had raged for days, calling the Targaryen names that would have even shocked Bronn. And now, one of Cersei’s other most hated people had gone to meet with Daenerys.

_Oh, shit!_ thought Jaime, looking cautiously towards Cersei, recognising her rapid breathing as a sign of her rage.

“Those fucking traitors!” Cersei shrieked, as she rose to her feet and hurled her goblet at the wall. “The Bastard of Winterfell and the Dragon Whore! What a fine pair they will make! I am the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and I will not let either of these fucking traitors undermine me or my rule!”

Silence fell in the room, broken only by Cersei’s ragged, angry breathing. Jaime looked over at Qyburn, who for once was staring with unfocused eyes at the wooden table, clearly at a loss for anything to say. Desperately suppressing a smirk at the maester’s discomfort, Jaime addressed Qyburn.

“When did he arrive? Or don’t you know that either?”

Qyburn, clearly not missing the subtle jibe, raised his head towards Jaime and fixed him with an angry stare.

“He set sail from White Harbour a few days ago, and landed on Dragonstone yesterday.”

“And now,” interrupted Cersei angrily, slamming her hand onto the table once more. “That Targaryen bitch has the means to defeat us!”

“We don’t know that yet,” said Jaime diplomatically. “We have roughly the same in terms of land and sea, now that we have allied ourselves with Euron Greyjoy. We don’t know for sure that Jon and Daenerys have allied themselves together.”

“But it is a safe assumption, Your Grace,” counted Qyburn, equal parts furious and eager, clearly detecting an opportunity. “They are both traitors, and they are now together. It seems only a matter of time before they join forces against us. We need to strike now, before they can move against us.”

Seeing the smug and contented look on Qyburn’s face, Jaime could have killed him there and then. Qyburn was indulging Cersei’s paranoia and anger, purely to suit himself and at the detriment to everyone in King’s Landing, and the Seven Kingdoms as a whole. Jaime was both baffled and angered by the level of disregard in the man’s actions. Especially as Cersei would likely act on it.

“Cersei,” said Jaime, urgently, as he reached out and grasped hold of her hand. “We need to tread carefully. The Starks and the Targaryens despise each other. They are more likely to fight each other than us! If we rush into action, _any_ action, thousands of people will die.”

“I don’t care!” she screamed at him, wrenching her hand away from him. “They can all burn for all I care! I will kill both of those fucking traitors, I swear it! Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen’s heads will be on spikes before the year is out!”

The Mountain stepped forward, his armour clanging as he moved, with an almost inhuman growl coming from under his helm. He was clearly reacting to Cersei’s tone of voice, ready to come to her defence. Jaime raised his hands in defeat, with a bitter taste in his mouth. He avoided the smug look on Qyburn’s face, knowing that it would only enrage him further.

_This is exactly as I feared_ , he thought despairingly. _Her already foolish actions are being fuelled by the maester and his mad schemes. It is the Mad King and Rossart repeated._

Jaime looked between his sister and the maester, both of whom were wearing identical looks of understanding and triumph, as if they both knew the answer to their problems.

_If he keeps advising her, then there might not be a Seven Kingdoms to rule over_ , thought Jaime, desperately trying to contain the hatred flowing through him.

*

The following day, under the cover of darkness, Jaime left the Red Keep, keeping his face covered to maintain his anonymity. Knowing that he was breaking the curfew that Cersei had implemented, Jaime kept to the shadows, sticking close to the shadowy walls of the various alleys and side streets that he travelled down, avoiding the main streets with the constant guard patrols. There were a couple of close calls, including once were two Lannister guards stopped mere inches from where Jaime had quickly hidden himself, but he managed to avoid detection during his journey.

Jaime made his way towards Flea Bottom, his feet squelching in the wet mud and other unknown substances underfoot. As he grew nearer to his destination, the alleys began to narrow even more, with more twists and turns to them. As he looked up he saw the tell-tale sign of the tops of the tall building leaning over to meet each other, forming a canopy overhead that would have left the ground underfoot relatively dry if it wasn’t for the running stream of sewage that run through the middle of most of the alleys, complete with such a foul smell that Jaime had almost retched several times.

He approached a tavern that was so old that it appeared near dilapidated, although Jaime knew that it had been kept in that state on purpose, in order to divert suspicion. Jaime opened the large oak door, its old hinges groaning under the strain, and headed down the stone stairs into what had obviously been the cellar of the tavern before its fall into disrepair. Jaime reached the bottom of the stairs and looked around the dimly lit room. While it was nowhere near anything resembling comfort, it was far above what it appeared to be from the outside.

All around Jaime there were various men and women milling around, drinking ale out large, dirty tankards, all the while shouting and laughing raucously knowing that the stone walls would likely muffle the noise from any passing guards. Jaime knew that this was the drinking place of many cutthroats, smugglers and thieves throughout King’s Landing.

Although he was only looking for one.

Jaime made his way around the room, casting his eyes around for the familiar face he was seeking. He came to a stop in front of a small booth, in which someone was making use of the whores who lived in the slums surrounding this hideaway, and exhaled deeply.

_For fuck’s sake,_ Jaime thought angrily. _I told him to be here!_

Jaime looked around the room once more, mumbling angrily under his breath. He was about to leave when he heard a gruff, familiar voice from behind him.

“Well, fuck me,” said the voice. Jaime turned to see Bronn move the prostitute onto his knee, a sly smirk on his face. “Look at that! Jaime fuckin’ Lannister, here, in our humble establishment.”

“Shut up!” growled Jaime furiously, taking a step towards Bronn. “I don’t want people to know who I am.”

Jaime looked pointedly at the exotic woman perched on Bronn’s knee who was looking back at him with a sultry look on her face, her breasts exposed due to Bronn’s eagerness. At his gaze the woman pushed herself from Bronn’s knee to drape herself around Jaime’s shoulders.

“She doesn’t speak the Common Tongue, apparently,” said Bronn, draining his tankard.

“So, you don’t know for sure?” demanded Jaime, as he gently pushed the woman away from him, showing his lack of interest. She looked at him reproachfully before walking way towards a rowdy group of smugglers, who welcomed her arrival with a loud cheer.

“Well, she doesn’t look like she understands a word I say,” said Bronn, shrugging his shoulders. “And she hasn’t spoken any of the times she was with me.”

“I don’t blame her,” said Jaime as he seated himself opposite Bronn. “I wouldn’t speak to you either if I didn’t have to.”

“Well there is no need to be fuckin’ hurtful,” replied Bronn, his smirk of amusement betraying his tone of mock hurt.

Jaime couldn’t supress a smirk from crossing his face. He enjoyed Bronn’s company, all words to the contrary. He was able to joke in the strangest of places, while at the same time being one of the most resourceful and deadly men that Jaime had ever met.

“So, what did you want to see me about?” asked Bronn, looking over at him with curiosity.

“We need to do something,” replied Jaime, with a note of desperation in his voice. “Cersei is constantly listening to Qyburn, that fucking maester. He is pushing her to go to war with the North and the Targaryen girl, at the same time.”

“We are already doing something, what else can we do?”

For the last few weeks, Jaime and Bronn had been meeting in secret, in various different hideouts all over the city. The two of them had hired a group of criminals, many of them old contacts of Bronn’s, in various different professions, from smugglers to thieves. As Cersei’s laws and punishments grew ever harsher, Jaime and Bronn had put their small group to work, working to undermine the activities of the guard, to keep the smallfolk safer.

The week before, Qyburn had brought news of the impending food shortage due to the Tyrell’s defection to the Targaryen cause. Jaime had told her that there was now no one that they could buy food from, and no money to do so even if there was. Cersei had declared that the bulk of the remaining food stores would be placed in the Red Keep, to keep them supplied throughout the winter. When Jaime had raised the point that the smallfolk of the city would starve, Cersei had shrugged with disinterest.

The following night, after the food had been placed in the stores, Jaime and Bronn had set their men to work. The thieves had entered the keep, carefully avoiding the guard routes that Jaime had passed along, and stolen some of the food. Once they had escaped the castle they had made their way through various smuggler routes throughout the city, various tunnels and old sewers that had long been forgotten about, and distributed the food to the neediest of the smallfolk. This had gone on for a few days before the theft had been discovered and the food stores being out under higher guard.

“Why do you care so much anyway?” asked Bronn, squinting over at Jaime. “All the things that your sister is doing won’t affect you that much, living in that castle like you are.”

“A war won’t affect me?” said Jaime, scowling in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Not what I mean. You have working hard, spending a lot of your own money, to make sure that a few people in the city have something to eat. Why? It doesn’t affect you?”

“Because I have done a lot of bad things,” replied Jaime, looking off into space. “And I want to do a least one honourable thing in my life before I die.”

Jaime had thought a lot about it, asking himself many times the very question that Bronn had just done. While he didn’t much believe in any of the Gods, or in the concepts of sin or penance, he did believe that he needed to repay some of the dark deeds that he had committed in his life. He knew that he could become an honourable man if he tried, as he had made some progress towards it while travelling with Brienne of Tarth, such as saving her from Locke and his men, albeit at the cost of his hand, and from the bear fight in the pit.

However, as soon as he arrived back in King’s Landing, back into the company of his family, he had fallen back into the same pattern as he had lived for most of his life. One of the first things he had done is to have sex with Cersei, with her consent dubious, next to the corpse of their dead child in the Sept of Baelor. Since then he had gone from act to act, nearly back to his former adoration of Cersei, willing to do as she asked at a moment’s notice.

His most recent meeting with Brienne at Riverrun had changed something within him. Seeing her again, someone who had initially only seen him as the oath-breaking Kingslayer, and hearing her declare that she saw him as a man with honour, had awakened something within him, a desire to be a man who deserved such praise.

“So, what do you want to do?” asked Bronn, interrupting Jaime’s thoughts.

“Like I said, Qyburn had too much influence over Cersei,” replied Jaime, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “We need to get rid of him.”

“Ha!” laughed Bronn. “You speak of doing some good, and yet here you are, planning an assassination.”

“If it means that innocent people won’t die, either thrown hopelessly against two different armies in the vain hope of victory or in Qyburn’s horrific experiments, then yes.”

Bronn looked at him for a moment, squinting at him with curiosity in his eyes, before shrugging slightly and nodding.

“Alright then. But if we are going to kill Qyburn, then we will have to deal with his fucking monstrosity as well.”

“And maybe Ilyn Payne as well,” muttered Jaime under his breath.

While the mute executioner had been kept busy lately, dealing with the increasing number of people sent to the block, Jaime knew that if Cersei so much as suspected that there was any threat to her or Qyburn she would have him acting as a bodyguard.

“Ah, that is helpful!” said Bronn sarcastically. “As if that _creature_ wasn’t enough, now you add him in too.”

Jaime shook his head in exasperation, not in the mood for Bronn’s sarcasm.

“Do you have any ideas on how to deal with him?” asked Jaime hopefully, as he himself had no idea.

“If he fights as he did before he…changed, then you will need to be fast and wait for him to tire.”

“I don’t know if he gets tired anymore,” said Jaime, a little helplessly. “I’ve never seen him so much as sit down, let alone sleep.”

“You don’t make this fuckin’ easy for me, do you?”

“Do you have any mercenary friends in the city? Maybe we can deal with him with sheer numbers.”

Bronn looked at him for a moment as though he was insane, before shaking his head and raising his hands in frustration.

“There are a few that I could get in touch with, who might be able to help. But they won’t be cheap…”

“I’ll pay whatever they want,” replied Jaime, a touch of desperation and anger in his voice now. “We _need_ to get rid of Qyburn… whatever it takes. Once we do, then Cersei will be able to make some decisions on her own, without him whispering poison in her ear.”

“Do you really think that you can help her?” Bronn asked, not unkindly. “Maybe… maybe she is too far gone for that.”

Jaime didn’t answer him, simply staring around the room with unfocused eyes, not really seeing anything.

_Unfortunately,_ he thought sadly. _He might be right._


	10. Daenerys II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you are ladies and gents, I hope you enjoy it.  
> Please keep the comments coming, guys. I love hearing what you guys think.  
> Next up will be Arya.

 

Daenerys

 

Dany stood on the balcony of the Chamber of the Painted Table, her hair and dress being whipped all about her by the high wind, as she observed the island of Dragonstone. In the morning light, she could see the two large, sprawling camps that her soldiers had formed. The Unsullied had pitched their tents in rigidly ordered rows, while the Dothraki tents were pitched wherever they wished.

Dany thought that it showed a lot about the two different forces that she had at her disposal. The Unsullied were consummate soldiers, completely disciplined men who followed their orders to the letter, whereas the Dothraki were more wild, and only followed orders when it suited them, preferring to follow their own blood lust during the thick of battle.

_They are so different,_ Dany thought, not for the first time. _But they are both needed, for different reasons._

Dany’s knowledge of military strategy was minimal, with the vast majority of her victories being due to either her dragons or the skill of her commanders, but she could see the benefits of both the Dothraki and the Unsullied. Jorah had told her of the advantages of the Unsullied before she had liberated them from Astapor. They would follow her orders without question, their skill on the field of battle was renowned and they were cut, which meant that they would not rape any prisoners.

The Dothraki on the other hand…

Dany turned her head towards the Dothraki encampment, hearing raucous shouts echoing up towards her. The Dothraki were widely feared throughout the Eastern continent for the way they would pillage and rape any cities that they take, before they would then enslave the people who lived there. Dany had seen this herself, when she had been with Drogo’s _khalasar_ when they had raided the Lhazareen village of Mirri Maz Duur. She had seen every living woman raped, and all others were taken prisoner and sold into slavery.

_Can I control them?_ Dany wondered, a little worried. _This is the way they have acted for centuries. But the people of Westeros won’t take kindly to a ruler who allows their army to rampage their way through the smallfolk and burning their homes, killing and raping all in their path._

As she thought of this, the gruff voice of Jorah Mormont went through her mind, speaking words she had heard long ago but had half-forgotten.

_“There is a beast in every man, and it stirs when you put a sword in his hand.”_

Dany exhaled deeply, closing her eyes, deep in thought.

While she knew that death and injury to innocent people was an unfortunate consequence of war, and that many Westerosi armies raped and pillaged just as the Dothraki, she was determined to keep the number of innocents who died as a result of her conquest as small as possible.

_I want to be known as a liberator,_ she thought, looking out to the outline of mainland Westeros on the horizon. _Someone who came to help them, not one who brought more pain and death._

“Your Grace?” came a voice from behind her, interrupting her thoughts.

Dany turned to see Lord Varys approaching her, his hands clasped behind his back. Dany looked past him, back into the chamber, and saw that Missandei, Grey Worm and Barbarro had already arrived and were seated at the table, alongside Pylos who had entered the room with Dany.

“Yes, Lord Varys,” said Dany. “What news?”

“Jon Snow is on his way, my Queen. He is speaking with Lord Tyrion.”

Dany nodded her understanding as she turned back to the view.

In the two days since he had arrived, Dany hadn’t seen much of the Northern king. She had spent much of her time meeting the various lords who had arrived to swear fealty to her, and to hear their stories of how the various Baratheon rulers had harmed their families.

His direwolf had seemed a little cautious of her, a feeling that she returned in kind. Ghost had never given the impression that he would harm her, he certainly didn’t act towards her like he did towards the Greyjoy siblings, snarling like he was ready to rip out their throats at moment’s notice, but she was still a little cautious around the albino wolf.

Jon Snow, on the other hand, had seemed like he was actively avoiding her, mainly keeping company with his Ser Davos and Tormund and spending his evenings drinking late into the night with Tyrion. Whenever they had come across each other in the hallway, he would nod curtly at her before continuing on his way without breaking his stride. Dany supposed that his wariness was due to the bad blood that existed between the Stark and Targaryen families.

She thought back to the times where she had heard about Rhaegar and Lyanna, usually from Viserys’ lips so she couldn’t tell for sure if they were true or not. Viserys had claimed that Rhaegar had been unhappy in his marriage with Elia Martell, so he had taken up with Lyanna Stark. He had also blamed Daenerys for being born too late, as she could have married Rhaegar and made him happy.

_It is hardly my fault_ , Dany had thought indignantly at the time.

Tyrion had also told her that many in the North, particularly the Starks, believed that Rhaegar had abducted and raped Lyanna. He had said that it had been the reason that Eddard Stark had joined with Robert Baratheon to usurp Aerys Targaryen from the Iron Throne.

While Dany had felt some sympathy for the Starks at their loss, she couldn’t help but think that their explanation of Rhaegar’s treatment of Lyanna to be a little too simplistic. From the stories that Viserys had told her, of Rhaegar’s love of fighting, she could well have believed the idea that her brother would kidnap Lyanna for himself.

But the stories that she had heard from Ser Barristan Selmy, a far more honourable and noble man than her brother, one who was not prone to lies or exaggeration, had caused her to question it. It was hard for Dany now to believe that her brother, the man who played his harp in the streets of King’s Landing for no reason other than he wished to and who didn’t like violence or killing, would take Lyanna away from her family purely out his own lust.

It seemed more likely that the two had left together, through love or lust Dany wasn’t sure, and the two sides had their own stories. So, while Dany could understand Jon and his family’s distrust, she couldn’t help but feel a little frustrated that they were not seeing the full picture.

But hopefully she could help Jon understand.

Dany thought back to when he had come before her a few days ago. She had heard much about Jon Snow, the White Wolf. She knew that many of his men regarded him as almost god-like, likely due to his story of his resurrection from death. That, along with the tales of his swordsmanship prowess and his leadership of the Night’s Watch, and now the North, had formed a picture of Jon in Dany’s head.

While he hadn’t matched the picture exactly, there had been something in their meeting that had grabbed her attention. There was something interesting about Jon Snow that Dany couldn’t quite put her finger on, no matter how much she thought about it. His tales had been completely outlandish, straying into fantasy at times, and yet he had stood there telling them with such sincerity, with such confidence in his voice, that Dany had found herself doubting her belief that they were purely fiction.

Dany had looked into his grey eyes, which had been shining with anger at their dismissal of his story, and had felt a knot of doubt appear in her stomach, which had only gotten worse when she had spoken to Tyrion later.

“It makes no sense for him to come all this way, to tell these tales if they are nothing but lies,” Tyrion had said, regarding her with a sage look on his face. “He knows you as a Targaryen, someone who might kill him if he angers you, and yet here he is, defying you by refusing to kneel and telling you about these White Walkers, creatures who are believed to only exist in stories.”

Dany had seen the sense in his words, which had made her examine Jon’s actions in a new light. His refusal to bend the knee, which at the time had made her angry, struck her now as both a sign of his loyalty to his men, the ones who had lifted him up and made him their king, and a sign of his conviction in his words. It had piqued her interest in him all the more.

And then there was Rhaegal.

The day before Dany had returned to her chamber, seeking an hour’s respite from the monotony of seeing lord after lord, hearing tale after tale. She had gone onto the balcony, hoping that the cool air would help her relax a little, and help her control her thoughts. She knew that this was a part of ruling, something that she would have to get used to, but it did nothing to alleviate the often tedious proceedings. Dany had leant against the railings and looked down to the beach…

And recoiled sharply in shock.

Rhaegal had landed on the beach with his long tail coiled behind him, its tip slashing at the incoming tide. Next to him stood two figures, Tyrion obvious even from so far away, and someone that Dany had guessed was Jon Snow. As she watched, Jon approached Rhaegal who, to Dany’s astonishment, bowed his head slightly, allowing Jon to pat his scaly snout.

Even from so far away, Dany could sense Jon’s wariness. He would whip his hand away at any slightest movement from Rhaegal, clearly unsettled by his razor-sharp teeth. However, Dany could tell by Rhaegal’s behaviour that he wouldn’t harm Jon, which confused her all the more. Viserion was the friendliest of her children, and had taken a particular liking to Tyrion since he freed them from their chains under the Pyramid of Meereen, but Rhaegal had not shown much affection to anyone other than her.

Until now.

Dany had spoken to Tyrion about the subject, knowing that he had read tomes upon tomes about dragons, from their history to their nature, hoping that he could help her to understand it. However, he too seemed to be at a loss for an explanation. The only thing that he had thought would be relevant was the nature of Valyrian dragon bonding.

“Dragon and those of Valyrian blood were known to have a bond between them, much like yours with Drogon. So, if Jon had some Valyrian blood in him, most likely from his mother, whoever she may be, that might explain it.

“However, no one knows who his mother is, not even Jon himself. From what he has told me only Lord Eddard knew, so he has likely taken the secret to his grave. She could have been part of a family with Valyrian blood, like House Velaryon or Celtigar, or she could simply be a descendant of some long-lost Targaryen bastard. Who knows?”

Dany had felt a rush of sympathy for Jon at that moment, knowing that it was unlikely that he would ever know who his mother was. Dany had never met her mother, who had died giving birth to her on Dragonstone, but at least she had known who she was, had heard some stories about her from Viserys and Barristan Selmy. Jon did not have this. He did not know if his mother was a noblewoman or a tavern maid, whether she was living or dead. The mystery of his parentage only increased Dany’s interest towards him.

The sound of the door opening drew Dany’s attention. She entered the room to see Jon walking in alongside Tyrion, with Davos and Tormund following behind them. Dany could see Jon’s grey eyes darting all over the room before settling onto the Painted Table itself, a look of amazement replacing his usual sombre demeanour.

Smirking a little at his reaction, Dany settled herself down into the throne overlooking the table. At Tyrion’s insistence, chairs had been placed nearest to the Winterfell portion of the map for Jon and his men. Dany was glad that Tyrion had suggested it, and was a little annoyed with herself that she hadn’t thought of it. It was a small gesture but one, as Tyrion pointed out, that would show Jon that she at least acknowledged his control of the North, even if she didn’t approve of it.

As expected Jon’s eyes fell to the Northern end of the map, with the three chairs arranged around it, and then he turned his eyes to Dany’s, with the ghost of a smile on his lips. Dany nodded slightly in return, as he and his companions made their way over and sat down.

“It is strange, being back in this room,” said Davos, as he took his seat. “The last time I was here, I served Stannis, and advised him to go north to deal with the White Walkers.”

“I wonder, Jon Snow,” said Dany loudly, sensing an opportunity to gain a better understanding of Jon. “How much can you trust your advisors when they are changing who they are loyal to?”

A beat of silence followed her words, with Davos looking a little shocked and Tormund mutinous. The fearsome looking Wildling opened his mouth to say something but Jon leaned in and whispered something to him. Tormund nodded jerkily and settled himself back into his chair, looking at Dany with eyes full of venom.

“Well, Your Grace,” Jon replied, with a slight undercurrent of anger in his voice. “I have had no reason to doubt Ser Davos’ loyalty since he joined me. His counsel has always been well thought out and reasonable and I have profited from listening to him.

“However,” he continued, with a small, confident smirk on his face that caused Dany to furrow her brow in confusion, “the same could also be said to you. Correct me if I am wrong, but two of your advisors have served different kings, _multiple_ different in fact.”

Dany turned to Lord Varys and Tyrion, who was looking over at Jon with a look of mock outrage on his face, and nodded a little, conceding Jon’s point.

Dany was impressed. She could see that Jon had great respect for his companions and advisors and regarded them as his friends, rather than as people who would help him maintain his power, like so many of those with power often did. It was something that she had strived to do herself, and so was both impressed, and a little relieved, that she had found someone who felt similarly.

“You make a fair point, Jon Snow,” Dany said, as she turned to meet his grey eyes with her own. “I am impressed. You clearly value your advisors as people rather than just what they can give you. From what Lord Tyrion tells me of Westeros, this is far from common.

“I apologise, Ser Davos,” continued Dany sincerely, turning to face the man. “This negotiation has only just begun and it is not proper to begin such discussions with distrust.”

Davos looked at her for a moment, regarding her words with interest, before nodding.

“Apology accepted, Your Grace. With all things considered, I can see why this negotiation would be … _complicated_.”

As he said this, Dany saw him glance towards Jon out of the corner of his eye and, instantly understanding his meaning, nodded her understanding.

Dany met Jon’s eye once more, and saw that the anger he had just shown was gone, to be replaced by curiosity and disbelief. Dany could instantly see that Jon knew that her question was more of a test for him, than a true questioning of Davos’ loyalty. Dany held his gaze for a moment, as if challenging him to say something, but he just shook his head slightly, with a look of exasperation on his face.

“So, Jon,” said Dany, settling herself onto the throne in a more comfortable position. “I believe we should begin our negotiations. What exactly are your terms? You gave me the brief outline when you arrived, but I want to know _everything_ that would be involved in any potential alliance.”

“Exactly as I said,” replied Jon, a bite of impatience in his voice. “I will aid you to gain the Iron Throne with the armies of the North and the Vale and in return you will help me to fight the White Walkers. Also, the North will remain its own, independent kingdom. I will not be bending the knee to you.”

Dany regarded Jon for a moment, feeling a little confused. She had expected there to be some way of gaining influence for Jon, or the North as a whole, with a marriage proposal suggested. But he seemed to be purely focused on the supposed White Walker threat.

_He is taking this very far if it is a joke_ , said Dany, not averting her gaze from Jon’s eyes, trying to detect any hint of deceit.

“My lord?” came Missandei’s voice, breaking the look between Dany and Jon. “I grew up in Essos and have heard very little about these White Walkers that you have spoken of. What are they?”

Dany turned back towards Jon, and could see him looking at Missandei with a pensive expression on his face. She could hear Pylos whispering to Missandei behind her, obviously giving her a brief description of the tales.

“Tell us about them, my lord,” said Dany. “I wish to hear of your time at the Night’s Watch. It will help us to understand you and the decisions that you have made.”

Dany hadn’t meant for what she had said to sound so questioning and critical, but it looked like Jon had taken it that way.

“You mean the Wildlings?” replied Jon bitterly.

“Yes,” replied Dany placatingly. “The stories that you have come to us with are very hard to believe, as I am sure you appreciate. I wish to hear about what you have seen and experienced so I can understand you, and what you wish from this alliance.”

Jon considered her words for a moment, looking at her questioningly. Dany could see that very few people had asked him to relay his entire experience while with the Night’s Watch, if any had at all. After a moment of consideration, Jon nodded at her.

“All right,” he said, nodding a little reluctantly. “But you realise that this is quite a long tale, don’t you?”

“We need some wine,” said Tyrion suddenly, reaching out and grasping the nearest flagon.

“Of course, you do,” said Jon, shaking his head with exasperation, causing Dany to chuckle slightly.

Dany watched as Jon shifted slightly in his chair, clearly uncomfortable by what he was about to do. Dany felt a twinge of sympathy for him, but she needed to know the truth. If what he was saying was true, then she needed to know all she could about what was coming.

“Why did you join the Night’s Watch, my lord?” asked Pylos politely.

“Because I am a bastard,” replied Jon bluntly. “At Winterfell I was always the outsider, even among my siblings. I joined so I could finally… _belong_ somewhere.”

Dany noticed the bitter tone to Jon’s voice, as he cast his eyes down towards the picture of Winterfell upon the table top and felt sympathy for him. From what Tyrion and Varys had told her about Westerosi customs, she knew that bastards were treated with scorn among the people of Westeros.

“After I took my vows, I was made the steward of the Lord Commander, Jeor Mormont,” continued Jon, causing Dany to recoil in shock.

“Mormont?” she said, completely baffled by this as she turned to Tyrion, who gave her a slight nod.

“The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch was Jorah’s father, my Queen,” he said, sipping from his goblet.

“You knew the Lord Commander’s son?” asked Jon, clearly thrown by this information.

“Yes”, replied Tyrion, before Dany could answer. “Ser Jorah Mormont served under Queen Daenerys for many years.”

“What did his father say of him?” asked Dany, turning to meet Jon’s eyes once more.

“He only said that Jorah brought dishonour to their house, but he didn’t say what.” Jon replied.

Dany nodded slightly, remembering how Jorah had told her that he had sold men into slavery before fleeing to Essos. She was silent for a moment, thinking hard about what had been said. Tyrion cleared his throat, bringing attention to him, as he raised his goblet to Jon, offering him the chance to continue with what he was saying.

“I was the steward to the Lord Commander,” continued Jon, with a grateful nod to Tyrion. “Before long we had our first experience with a wight.

“A wight,” said Jon, addressing Missandei directly, “is a corpse that is resurrected by the White Walkers, usually by the Night King, to fight for them.”

“How could you tell it was a wight?” asked Missandei, in a hushed tone.

“You mean other than the pale blue eyes?” asked Jon. “Because he was dead. Our maester, Maester Aemon, confirmed it.”

Dany sat up a little straighter in her throne, for reasons that she couldn’t fully understand. Tyrion jolted slightly in his chair.

“Aemon?” said Pylos, looking at Jon, who nodded resolutely back. “The maester at Castle Black? I hadn’t heard while at the Citadel about a Targaryen on the Wall.”

“Aye,” replied Jon, looking at Dany, with a smile on his face. “Not many people did know. He was your father’s uncle. He was a great and wise man, whose counsel I sought on many occasions while I was the Lord Commander, and even before that, which he was always willing to give.

“He often received letters about you, you know?” Jon continued, continuing to smile at her. “He wanted to know how his last relative was doing, wherever you were, even if he could do little about it.”

Dany sat in her throne, completely stunned. She had another relative out there that she didn’t even know about. When Viserys had died, and Rhaego had died before he had been born, Dany had thought that she was the last Targaryen, the last of her family. But now here she was, hearing about the existence of another Targaryen, from the last person she expected.

“Where is he?” Dany asked, trying to keep the quiver of excitement from her voice.

Jon’s face fell, and Dany knew at once what he was going to say, with her high spirits sinking.

“I’m sorry,” said Jon sincerely. “Maester Aemon died while I was at Hardhome. He died peacefully in his bed. His age caught up with him.”

Dany looked down at her hands, trying desperately to not let her overwhelming emotions show on her face. The idea that she could have someone to talk to, someone who knew about their family and who could help her in ways that Tyrion and Varys could not, had been so overwhelming that she had clutched onto it desperately, like a piece of driftwood in a flood, clinging on for all she was worth.

And now it had been snatched away from her, before she could even begin to fully comprehend in what it could mean. It was like the Gods were playing a cruel joke upon her.

Dany felt a warm, comforting hand on her shoulder and turned to see Missandei standing next to her, looking at her with a concerned expression on her face. Instinctively, Dany raised her hand and rested it on top of her friend’s and nodded her thanks before turning back to Jon.

“Thank you, Jon” she said quietly, looking him in the eye. He said nothing but nodded slowly at her.

There was a moment of silence, while Jon and Dany looked at each other, seemingly oblivious to those around them. Dany felt an inexpressible gratitude towards Jon for bringing her the news of Aemon, even if he was also telling him that the old man had passed. The news that she’d had another member of family that she could have known if things had been different made her all the more determined to win back the throne for her family, for _all_ of them.

“Yes, so…” said Jon slowly, clearly trying to get the conversation back on track. Dany nodded to him, and settled back into her throne. “Me and my friend Sam found some bodies of our fallen rangers while we were taking our vows under the weirwood trees, beyond the wall.

“That night one of them, Othor, rose up and attacked the Lord Commander. I tried to kill it but nothing that I did worked at first. I cut off its arm and stabbed it in the gut with my dagger but nothing worked, until I threw a lantern at it. It caught fire at once and died.

“That is why I need your dragons to aid me, Daenerys,” said Jon, looking earnestly at her. “Fire is the only way to kill the wights. Your three dragons could be the difference between victory and defeat in this fight.”

Dany looked back at Jon curiously. As usual what he was saying sounded completely crazy, but he said it with such conviction that she had to second guess her first impression. Unsure of what to think, Dany nodded back at him, willing Jon to continue.

“A few days later we headed north, to try and find out what we could about the rising dead, and the Wildlings. Before long we made it to Craster’s Keep, a Wildling who allowed the rangers to stay with him. That is when I saw one of _them_ for the first time.

“Craster left his boys in woods, as offerings to the White Walkers. I followed him one night and saw what took the child. I didn’t just see it though, I _heard_ it. There was this whispering and cracking all around me as I made my way towards it, like something was moving through the trees. I didn’t see much more as Craster found me.”

Jon finished talking, and everyone fell into silence, absorbed into their own thoughts about Jon’s story. Dany didn’t have long to dwell on it, before Jon continued.

“We continued to head north, and met up with several other rangers, including Qhorin Halfhand. We left to deal with a few Wildling patrols, and found them high on a ridge. They were all killed except for a girl, her name was Ygritte, and it was my job to execute her… but I couldn’t.”

Jon shook his head slightly, and shared a look with Tormund, who clearly knew Ygritte too. Jon sighed deeply and continued his story. He told them how he killed Qhorin to join with Mance Rayder’s army of one hundred thousand and to gain their trust. He spoke of how he had spent weeks travelling with them, getting to know their culture and the way they thought and acted.

“That is why I decided to help them later,” Jon said. “I realised during that time that the Wildlings are just the same as us. They just had the misfortune to be born north of the wall, and for that they are hunted down like animals. I thought that was wrong and had to change.”

Dany couldn’t help but agree with him. She had never believed that the circumstances of your birth should mean that you are treated as less than anyone else. It had been one of the main reasons why she had worked so hard to eradicate slavery throughout Slaver’s Bay. While she was a member of a noble house, and was a Queen, Dany had also tried to not treat people as if they were beneath her, always treating people, whatever their birth, with respect.

As Jon had been talking, Dany had noticed the affection and respect in his voice when he spoke of the Wildlings, and in particular Ygritte. She guessed that the two of them had formed some kind of relationship, and couldn’t help but wonder where she was now, but didn’t press the issue.

“So, Jon,” said Tyrion, slurring his words slightly. “You are clearly still among us, so I assume that you managed to escape the Wildlings at some point and return to the Wall.”

“Aye,” replied Jon, with a note of sadness entering her voice now, confusing Dany slightly. “I climbed the Wall with Tormund, Ygritte and some others. A few weeks later I left them to warn my brothers about Mance’s army. We had a few weeks to prepare for their attack but even with that time, we didn’t stand much of a chance, as there were only around a hundred of us left.

“The battle lasted all night. When it was over, there were over fifty Night’s Watch brothers were dead, with many more of the Wildlings joining them… along with Ygritte.”

Jon’s voice cracked as he lowered his gaze to the table, a sad look on his face. Dany was sure now that he had fallen in love with Ygritte, and thought back to their first meeting and what he had said in the hall.

_His father, two of his brothers and his lover dead,_ she thought sadly, looking at Jon’s hunched form. _Another of his brothers and one of his sisters are also missing. He has lost so much, and yet he still acts with honour and respect. It is remarkable._

“Anyway,” said Jon suddenly, raising his head back to address them, his face solemn. “After that Lord Stannis arrived and broke the remainder of Mance’s army, who fled to Hardhome. Mance and Tormund were taken prisoner and I was elected the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

“A lot of good that did you,” grunted Tormund, causing Davos to snort a little and the corner of Jon’s mouth to twitch slightly.

“I decided that with the Long Night approaching that we would need to help the Wildlings at Hardhome, to stop them from becoming wights and for them to join us in the fight. Tormund and I headed there with a few brothers to recruit as many of them as we could. Only around five thousand agreed but as we were leaving the White Walkers arrived, killing everyone they could.

“I managed to kill one of them but there were still three more, one of them being their leader, the Night King, as well as their army of wights. There was nothing we could do but run. While we were sailing away, the Night King raised his arms and all of the dead Wildlings, thousands of them, all stood back up, turned into wights.”

Dany’s breath hitched in her throat at Jon’s words, for reasons that she couldn’t quite explain. While her brain was telling her that these White Walkers _couldn’t_ be real, the sincerity and seriousness of Jon’s words were convincing her otherwise. She couldn’t imagine what is must have been like at Hardhome, fighting for your lives against creatures that couldn’t be killed without fire, which she supposed was in short supply North of the Wall.

“It is strange, isn’t it?” said Tormund, cutting the tension in the room as he turned to Jon. “How we went from trying to kill one another to fighting side by side, eh?”

“Aye,” replied Jon, smirking slightly.

“You were a treacherous little fucker though.”

At this, Jon and Tormund burst into laughter, with Davos smiling broadly, clearly as a way to relieve the tension more than anything. From what the two had said, Dany agreed with Tormund, it did seem strange that these two men could have gone from being enemies to such close allies. Dany couldn’t think more about it though as a realisation struck her.

“So, you brought the five thousand Wildlings back with you to the Wall,” she said. “And this must have angered the remaining Night’s Watch members, so they turned on you.”

“Aye,” said Jon, all traces of mirth gone from his face as he nodded grimly back at her. “Helping the Wildlings convinced many of my brothers that I was a traitor to the Night’s Watch, so the officers, led by Alliser Thorne and joined by my steward Olly, stabbed me one night, killing me.”

“And then, you were resurrected,” finished Varys, his voice dripping with sarcasm and disbelief.

“Aye, I was,” responded Jon indignantly.

“With respect, my lord,” said Davos quickly, interrupting before tempers grew, “I was the one who found Jon dead in the snow. His eyes were wide open and the snow was stained with blood a few feet in every direction.”

“Aye, I saw the wounds those fuckers left.” continued Tormund angrily, glaring at Varys with such malice that Barbarro rattled his _arakh_ threatening, which only caused Tormund to smirk derisively at him. “It took a lot of knives to bring him down, six or seven at least. So, remember, you preening little shit, you weren’t there to know the truth, so don’t call us liars!”

“Enough!” said Jon commandingly, raising his hand. “Arguing about this gets us nowhere.”

“Agreed,” said Dany as she turned to Varys. “Lord Varys, I understand your scepticism around Jon’s story but I would appreciate it if you kept it to yourself for now, and not antagonise our guest any further.”

Varys nodded meekly to Dany, causing Tormund to smirk and mutter something that sounded like ‘fucking bootlicker’ before Jon nudged him angrily and whispered something into his ear, which caused him to nod too, albeit a lot more grudgingly.

“So, once you were resurrected,” continued Dany, trying to keep her own misgivings from her voice. “You and your sister, Sansa, raised an army and retook Winterfell from the Boltons, and now here you are.”

As Jon nodded his head, Dany leaned back in the throne thinking hard. While a lot of his story was so hard to believe, she couldn’t help thinking that maybe, _maybe_ , it was in fact true.

“Well, Jon Snow,” she said finally. “While I am still not fully convinced that these White Walkers are real, and probably won’t be until I see them with my own eyes, I _am_ convinced that we can work together.”

Jon thought for a moment, looking towards Davos and Tormund for their advice, before nodding his agreement. At this Dany felt her advisors relax slightly behind her, as she herself let out a long sigh, happy that they could come to something resembling an agreement.

“There is something I need to know, first,” said Jon, leaning forward slightly. “Before we discuss where and how my forces will be used, I need to know that we can put the bad blood between our families behind us.”

“’Bad blood?’” echoed Dany disbelievingly, her temper rising as quickly as her with her voice, her earlier thoughts of trying to make Jon understand her family’s side forgotten in the face of his brazen words. “Is that what you call it? Your father helped Robert Baratheon take my family’s throne, which caused the deaths of my brother and his children, my father and my mother, and caused me to go into exile! I think that is a little more than _bad blood_!”

“Do you even know _why_ my father aided Robert Baratheon?” demanded Jon, looking as angry as Dany felt.

“Yes, I know about Rhaegar and your aunt Lyanna. I know that they vanished together.”

“That is not the only reason!”

Dany jolted in surprise, shocked by Jon’s statement.

_Not the only reason?_ Dany wondered. _What else could there be?_

Jon looked stunned by the look on Dany’s face, as he looked back and forth between her and her advisors.

“Have they not told you?” said Jon furiously, glaring at Tyrion and Varys. “Have they not told you what your father did to Lord Eddard’s father and brother?”

Dany shook her head, completely in the dark about what he was talking about. As Jon continued to glare at Tyrion and Varys, looking angry and disbelieving, Dany rifled through her memory, trying to remember if anyone had told her about this, even when she was a girl. When Dany realised for sure that she had no idea of the circumstances that Jon was referring to, she returned her full attention to him, and saw him draining his goblet.

“All right then,” he growled. “Seeing as your advisors haven’t seen fit to advise you on this matter, allow me.”

He refilled his goblet, before leaning forward slightly, and looked into Dany’s eyes, his grey ones filled with anger. Dany returned his gaze, giving him her undivided attention.

“Brandon Stark, my father’s brother, was heading to Riverrun to marry Catelyn Tully when he heard about Rhaegar leaving with Lyanna. He was understandably furious, so he headed to King’s Landing to demand answers.

“When he arrived at the Red Keep, he began to shout, rather foolishly I admit, for Rhaegar to ‘come out and die’. That was enough for your father to have him arrested for treason. Aerys then sent a raven to Brandon and Eddard’s father, Lord Rickard, telling him to come to King’s Landing to answer for his son’s treason, where he was too arrested.

“Lord Rickard demanded a trial by combat, as was his right. He chose to fight it himself and put on his armour. Your father then claimed that the champion of House Targaryen was fire.”

Dany’s eyes widened, fear and disgust flooding through her. She turned to look at Tyrion, who met her eyes sadly and Dany knew instantly that Jon as telling the truth. Dany then turned to Missandei and Pylos, who were both looking as horrified as Dany was feeling.

Dany turned back to Jon, both wishing for him to continue and also for him to stop.

“Lord Rickard was suspended over a large fire, still in full armour. Brandon was brought in with a noose tied around his neck. He was told that if he could reach a sword on the floor, then he could free himself and save his father.

“What your father didn’t say was that the sword was just out of reach, and the more Brandon struggled to reach it, the tighter the noose became. Brandon Stark strangled himself as he tried to save his father. And Lord Rickard boiled alive in his own armour, after watching his own son die trying to save him.”

Silence fell in the room. Dany sat in her throne, feeling ill. She had heard many stories about her father, how he had burnt and killed many of those under his rule, but this was the worst she had ever heard. It had left her feeling sick to her stomach.

“And _that_ ,” said Jon, drawing Dany’s attention once more, “is why my father joined Robert Baratheon to go to war against your father. Not just because of Lyanna.”

“How do you know this?” asked Pylos quietly.  

“My father told Robb and I when we were fourteen. He wanted us to know that he didn’t go to war for his own glory, or to help his friend to gain the throne. He wanted us to know that he rebelled against his king to get justice for his family.”

Dany sat numbly in her seat, her breathing shaky and uneven. Anger rose up within her as she turned to Tyrion and Varys.

“Is this true?” she demanded angrily, causing them both to wither slightly in their seats.

“Yes, Your Grace,” said Varys finally.

“What else haven’t you told me about the Starks that I should know?”

 Dany watched as Tyrion and Varys look at each other, before Varys turns back to look at her.

“You’ve heard about how Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, killed Rhaegar’s young children?”

Dany nodded furiously, willing him to get to the point.

“Lord Eddard was furious about it. He believed it to be murder and was further angered when Robert referred to them as ‘dragonspawn’. Eddard left the capital after the argument. It very nearly broke their lifelong friendship, as it was only due to their grief over Lyanna’s death that mended the rift between them.

“And then, when Robert Baratheon sent assassins after you when you became pregnant, Lord Eddard refused to go along with the plan. He even quit as Hand of the King and was preparing to leave Winterfell because of it before he was injured.

“My Queen,” continued Varys, leaning forward slightly. “While Robert Baratheon may not have been, Lord Eddard was an honourable, and good, man.”

Dany rested her head in her hands, feeling even worse. Her whole life, thanks to all of the stories that she had been told by Viserys, she had believed Eddard Stark to be a treacherous usurper, who only cared about his own gain by deposing her father. But now, with all she had heard, she knew the truth. He was, in fact, an honourable man, who had even risked a lifelong friendship to try to protect her, a total stranger.

Jon’s story about the fate of Rickard and Brandon had turned her stomach, but it had allowed her to fully understand why Lord Eddard would go to war to get rid of her father.

_My father deserved it after doing that_ , she thought angrily, her hands coiling into fists against her forehead. _No crime fits that punishment._

Dany felt a fresh rush of guilt flood through her. She realised that she had allowed her perception of Eddard to affect how she had treated Jon. She had regarded his father as a usurper, and had treated Jon the same by association.

“Jon,” she said slowly, as she raised her head to look at him. “I’m sorry.”

Jon’s eyes widened in shock at her words but Dany didn’t much care. She only hoped her sincere feelings of guilt could be heard in her apology.

“I am so sorry for everything that my father did to your family.”

Jon held her gaze for a moment, his dark eyes filled with confusion. Dany watched him, willing him to speak. After a moment, he nodded towards her, causing a wave of relief to flow through her.

“Thank you, Daenerys,” he said, as he got up and began to walk towards her. “But _you_ haven’t harmed my family, so I will not hold your father’s actions against you. I want us to be able to put this bad blood behind us. To not act as our fathers would have done, but to act as what _we_ see is right, for the benefit of the Seven Kingdoms.”

As he stopped near her, he held out his hand for her to shake.

“I agree, Jon.” Dany said, as she too got to her feet.

Dany took his proffered hand and shook it, meeting his eyes once more. Dany could feel his strong, calloused fingers gripping her small hand but she felt no threat in his firm grip, especially when he smiled warmly at her.

They stood there for a moment in silence, their hands and eyes locked, finally cementing their alliance.

The silence was broken by the sound of the large door banging open with such force that it rebounded off the wall behind it. Dany turned to see Yara racing into the room, her race red from exertion. She had clearly run the whole way here.

“Yara, what is it?” Dany asked, furrowing her brow in confusion.

“It’s Euron,” she panted, pointing out of the window. “He’s here!”

Dany turned towards the balcony, following Yara’s finger, feeling a plummeting feeling in her stomach.

On the horizon, Dany saw several dozen ships.

All heading towards them.


	11. Arya II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you are guys, hope you enjoy.   
> As always let me know what you think.  
> Next up will be Sam

 

Arya

 

Arya and the Brotherhood continued to make their way north, feeling the air growing ever colder as they passed a few small settlements and farmhouses, all long since abandoned. The did not meet anyone, friend or foe, with little else to break the boredom of travelling.

Arya tried to keep as far from the Brotherhood men as she could, which was made easier by the fact that many of them kept as far from her as they could, eyeing her with distrust. While the majority of them did not treat her with outward hostility, she could tell that her bloody rampage through their men was not easily forgotten.

Arya stayed at the back of the column of men, a little way back from the others, as the cold hard ground made way to a blanket of snow. Every day they grew closer to Winterfell, filling Arya with both happiness and anxiety.

While she was looking forward to seeing Sansa and Jon once more, she couldn’t lie to herself that she was a little concerned about how they would receive her. She had changed a lot since leaving Winterfell, killed a great many people, not least her actions at the Twins. While Arya knew that they wouldn’t begrudge her taking vengeance, she knew that they, Jon especially, might object to the method that she had taken, killing them in their sleep rather than in battle.

Arya shook her head, dispelling these thoughts.

_Don’t think that way!_ She scolded herself, feeling a little irritated by her worries.

One night, they found what appeared to be an abandoned tavern by the roadside. It had clearly been ransacked by bandits, more than likely the remaining Bolton men. Arya dismounted her horse, feeling the frozen grass crackling under her feet. She saw that many of the Brotherhood men had drawn their swords in preparation for a fight. Arya mimicked them without thought, her eyes scanning the darkening woods for any sign of movement, heralding a potential ambush.

When none came, she followed them into the tavern. While it had clearly been abandoned for several weeks, the smell of ale and smoke still lingered on the air. Arya looked around, at the overturned tables and chairs, half-expecting someone to jump out at any moment.

“There is no one here!” came a shout from the balcony above them, where the rooms were.

Everyone relaxed at the words, sheathing their blades. As Arya placed Needle back onto her belt, she caught a glimpse of the Hound, who looked a little annoyed that there was no one here to kill, causing Arya to smirk a little.

“Fuck me!” came another shout, this time from below. “Looks like those Bolton fuckers missed the wine! There are fucking barrels of ale as well!”

A gleeful roar rose from the assembled men, clearly pleased that they could get drunk once more. Arya shook her head in exasperation as she left the tavern once more to tie up her horse and to collect some firewood.

A couple of hours later, there was a large fire burning in the hearth, filling the room with heat and the smell of cooking rabbit. Arya settled herself at a table, with a plate of meat and a small horn of ale, the taste of which she was beginning to get a liking for. She looked across the room to see the Hound, sitting by himself with a sullen look on his face.

Arya thought for a moment, before gathering her food and making her way over to join him. He stood looking for a moment, before smirking slightly.

“You look a little displeased with the food,” she said, as she seated herself opposite him. “Would you prefer chicken?”

The Hound met her eye briefly, before returning it to his plate, the burned side of his face twitching slightly as a smirk spread across his lips.

“Aye,” he said, looking around the room quickly. “It wasn’t too long ago we were killing those Lannister fuckers in a tavern just like this. Led by that little prick. What was his name?”

“Polliver,” Arya replied, remembering the feeling of driving Needle into his throat, avenging Lommy.

“Aye, that cunt.”

Arya chuckled slightly, shaking her head.

“It was a little surprising to see you again,” Arya said suddenly. “The last time I saw you, there was bone sticking out of your thigh, after that woman threw you from the cliff.”

“And you left me there.”

“Wouldn’t you?” replied Arya, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.

“No,” he replied simply, as he stripped the flesh from another rabbit bone. “I would have killed you.”

“Of course, you would,” said Arya, chuckling again.

Silence fell between them, and Arya thought back to those weeks where they travelled together. More often than not they would be in silence, broken only to suggest to camp for the night or to point out food. Arya had revelled in the silence at the time, as it had allowed her to bury herself in her thoughts, envisioning the many ways that she would kill all of those on her list.

“What happened to you, after I left?” Arya asked, finally voicing the question that had gone through her mind constantly while on the road the last few days.

The Hound glared at her over the table, more out of shock than anger. He continued to look at her, unnerving her a little by the steadiness of his gaze, without saying a word.

Just when she thought he would not speak, he sighed slightly and drained his tankard.

“I was found by a septon,” he said, pouring himself more ale. “He thought I was dead at first so he tried to bury me, until I coughed. That scared the shit out of him!”

The Hound chuckled slightly, but Arya could tell that there was no true laughter behind it. Arya began to detect a hint of sadness and anger in his voice, so small it was almost missed.

“He got me back to health, so I helped him build his sept. Right in the middle of fucking nowhere.”

“Wait!” Arya interrupted, completely shocked. “You! Building a sept? I didn’t know you believed in the gods.”

“Ha! Fuck the gods,” he spat. “I didn’t do it for them. I helped them because they helped me, kept me fed.”

Arya nodded a little, still surprised by his story. The Hound had never spoken of helping another other than Sansa in the King’s Landing riots, at least not to her.

_This septon must really have helped him_ , thought Arya.

“Where is this septon?”

“He’s dead,” the Hound replied bluntly, the angry undercurrent in his voice growing more noticeable. “He was killed by one of the Brotherhood. Some yellow cloak wearing cunt.”

“So, you joined them after they killed your friend? Why?”

“ _They_ didn’t kill him. That fucker did. Him and his friends. I gave them what they deserved.”

Arya smirked to herself, certain that she knew his meaning.

_Knowing the Hound, they probably were separated into several pieces,_ Arya thought, continuing to smirk.

“Beric and Thoros mentioned the ‘cold winds’ that are rising in the north,” she remembered quietly, puzzled over the meaning. “Is that why you joined? To head north to fight them with Jon?”

The Hound shrugged a little.

“What do they mean by ‘cold winds’?”

“The White Walkers, girl,” he said, his smirk widening at her look of amazement.

_White Walkers._

She remembered hearing tales about them as child from Old Nan, of how they had attacked with their hordes of dead and giant, pale spiders. She had long since dismissed them as mere stories, merely to frighten children. However, after seeing what she had in the last few years, not least the ability to change faces, had given her cause to rethink this belief.

“So,” she said quietly, thinking hard. “Do you think that they are real?”

“I have no fucking clue, girl,” he said, wiping the mouth with the back of his hand. “I won’t until I see them. Until then, we will head north.”

Silence fell once more, and Arya used the time to dwell on the news.

_If anyone knows that they are real, it will be Jon_ , decided Arya. _He was at the Night’s Watch for years. If they are coming, he will have seen them surely._

As she thought this, a recurring thought resurfaced.

How was Jon at Winterfell when he had taken the oath of the Night’s Watch, a lifelong one?

Ever since she had heard of Jon’s coronation from Torrhen and Beth, Arya had wondered about the circumstances that had led to it. She refused to believe that Jon had broken his oath and deserted from his Watch.

_No, he is too much like Father. Too honourable,_ Arya would reassure herself.

So how had this happened?

Lost in her thoughts, Arya was vaguely aware that the Hound has said something to her, looking at her with confusion on his face.

“What did you say?”

“Are you fucking deaf, girl?” he said, smiling slightly. “I asked you to return the favour, to tell me what you did after you left me at the bottom of that fucking cliff.”

Arya nodded, and began her tale. She told him of her travels to Braavos and her adventures within the city, her training within the House of Black and White and her rivalry with the Waif.

When she came to the end of her tale, with her slaughter of the Freys, she looked at the Hound, and saw his face was a mask of disbelief and pride.

“The Faceless Men?” he said gruffly.

“What?” she replied, only half listening.

“You joined the Faceless Men? Those fucking assassins that everyone shouts about.”

“Kind of,” she replied hesitantly. “I could have joined but I chose to return home. I did receive their training though, their ability to change faces.”

“Fuck me!” he exclaimed, nodding appreciatively. “No wonder you made those Brotherhood fools look like fucking children!”

Arya smirked slightly at the praise, as the Hound raised his tankard to her. Arya followed his lead, her smile widening further, even more firm in her belief that she no longer desired his death.

*

The following day, Arya broke her pattern. Instead of riding near the back of the group, she decided to ride at the front, between the Hound and Thoros. It was a particularly cold morning, with her breath rising in great plumes in front of her.

As they continued their march north, the woods on either side began to thicken, blocking out all sound other than the hooves of their mounts, crunching on the snow.

A few hours into their ride, Arya began to think she could hear voices, other than the boisterous talk of the men behind her. She turned to look at Beric, and saw that he was looking concerned.

Before long he raised his hand, calling the men to halt. They did so immediately, growing quiet so fast it was almost eerie. Arya strained her ears further and heard the shouts of men celebrating.

Followed by a woman’s scream.

As one Beric, Thoros and Anguy all swiftly slid down from their horses, quickly followed by the Hound and Arya. After leaving some men behind to guard the horses, they made their way toward the sounds, hearing them become louder.

As they grew ever louder, Beric called them to slow. They began to move stealthily through the trees, sticking close to the trunks for cover. As the trees began to thin, they saw a small cottage appear through the trees, set in a small clearing. As they came to the edge of the clearing, they huddled themselves against the trees, out of sight to observe.

Arya looked around and saw a scene of carnage before her. Counting quickly, Arya saw that there were fifteen men walking in the area in front of the house, all wearing various pieces of leather armour. She looked further and saw two bodies, clearly the owner of the cottage and his son. A little further away lay the man’s wife, whose scream had clearly been the one they had heard shortly before. By the way she was lying, with her dress ripped open, Arya could guess at the reason for her scream.

Arya felt disgust and fury rise in her throat like bile, her heart thundering in her chest. She wanted nothing more than to attack, to make these men pay for their actions.

As if sensing her thoughts, Beric pressed his hand on her shoulder firmly, preventing her from rising. After throwing a furious look towards him for impeding her, Arya looked back towards the men. One of the closest turned towards where they had hidden themselves, causing them to duck their heads to avoid detection.

Arya raised her head a little and saw, to her shock, the sigil emblazoned on the front of the man’s armour.

“Boltons!” she snarled, her hand coiled around the hilt of Needle.

“Fucking Boltons,” responded the Hound, sounding as furious as Arya was.

“What are we going to do?” asked Arya, looking toward Beric and Thoros.

“We shall give them justice,” replied Beric quietly.

As Arya tried once more to raise herself from the ground, Beric’s hand forced her back to the dirt.

“But we must first plan our assault.”

Arya looked towards the Hound, and his look of furious disbelief matched her own. She turned her attention back to the Bolton bandits, making note of where they all were, and what weapons they carried. The majority carried longswords, while a few wielded axes.

_Neither of which are much of a problem,_ Arya thought with a smile.

As Arya watched the men moving around, she was vaguely aware of Beric and his men’s planning, which seemed to be turning in circles.

Rolling her eyes in exasperation, she turned to the Hound.

“How is this for a plan?” Arya said, gesturing to the Boltons. “You attack them and, while they are distracted fighting you, they won’t see me sneaking around behind them to stab them in the back.”

“Aye,” he replied, his eyes lighting up with excitement as he raised himself onto his knee and drew his sword. “Now that is a fucking plan.”

Arya and the Hound moved as one, both rising from the ground and racing off. The Hound moved to engage the Boltons, while Arya raced around the edge of the treeline, making her way around behind the house.

As she moved, she heard the clash of steel and the shouts of the Hound and his combatants. As she ran, Arya saw an archer climb onto the roof of the nearby stable. She changed her course towards it, knowing that it would mean the Hound’s death.

Using a bale of hay that had been propped against it, Arya hoisted herself onto the stable roof. As she did so, she saw the archer nock an arrow into his bow. She raced across the thatched roof, drawing Needle from her belt as she did so. She stopped behind the man and pushed it through the man’s neck, severing his windpipe.

Arya pushed the man from the roof, causing him to land upon another man, who was raising himself up from a drink-fuelled stupor. Arya jumped down from the roof, landing almost cat-like between this man and another, who had also risen to his feet. Arya slashed at the side of his knee, forcing him back down into the dirt. She then pushed Needle through the side of the man’s head, killing him instantly.

Arya spun on the ball of her foot, switching Needle into her right hand as she did so, and finished off the man still struggling under the archer’s body. She switched Needle back into her preferred left hand as she turned to examine the remaining men.

The Hound was fighting like a man possessed, limbs and blood flying in all directions as he swung his sword with tremendous ferocity. Arya saw movement out of the corner of her eye and saw two more archers nocking arrows. As she sprinted towards them, she saw them let their arrows fly, with only one finding its mark, into the Hound’s shoulder.

Arya saw the archer nearest to her turn at her approach, but she was moving at such a speed that he did not have time to react. Without much finesse, Arya barrelled into the man, sending him sprawling into the dirt. The man who remained standing looked on in disbelief as Arya slashed his throat open with a savage swipe. As the man fell to his knees, clutching at his slit throat, Arya turned to the first man, who had risen back to feet, and thrust Needle into the man’s eye.

As both men fell to the ground, Arya spun around and raced toward a man who had his back to her. However, this kill was not as easy, as he heard Arya’s approach and turned to face her, raising his axe. Arya came to a halt, raised on the balls of her feet in anticipation of an attack. The Bolton swung his axe towards her, trying to take off her head. His blow missed when Arya dropped flat to the dirt, landing on her right side, keeping her sword arm free.

Arya reached up and jabbed Needle twice. First into the man’s groin, causing him to drop his weapon as he clamped his hands to the bleeding wound, and then under the man’s chin, up through his head and out the top of his skull. As Arya raised herself to her feet, she turned in time to see another Bolton swinging their weapon towards her.

She ducked the blow as she stabbed Needle into the side of the man’s knee. However, as the man fell his body twisted, pulling Needle from her grasp. Without thinking, Arya pulled the dagger from her belt and pulled the man’s head back, slashing his throat open, causing a spray of blood to soak the ground before her.

Arya got to her feet, breathing deeply as she retrieved Needle and returned the dagger to her belt. She turned to where the Hound had been, now standing amidst a pile of corpses, their blood staining the ground. As one they both turned to the remaining man, who stood stock still, clearly terrified at what he had just witnessed.

The Hound and Arya locked eyes once more as they both made their way towards the Bolton man, their swords raised. As they got closer, the man backed further away from them, until he stood with his back to the wall. Before either of them could get with striking range, they both heard something whistle through the air, an instant before an arrow pierced the man’s throat.

Arya turned to see Anguy lowering his bow, an appreciative smile on his face as he stood between Beric and Thoros.

“Took you long enough,” growled the Hound, wiping the blood from his face with his sleeve.

“It looked like both you needed help,” laughed Thoros sarcastically, as he gestured towards the dead Boltons. “You both killed the same number of Boltons.”

Arya followed his gesture, and saw two very different pictures. On the side where she stood, were seven dead men, each of them killed with precise, often single, strikes. On the Hound’s side, it was very different. From what she could see, none of the men he had killed had remained in one piece, with their limbs often separated from their bodies by several feet.

“Well done, you two,” said Beric calmly, as he walked between them examining the dead. “But I would prefer you not do that again. You won’t always be so successful.”

The Hound scoffed loudly at this, causing a few of the men to chuckle slightly. He caught Arya’s eye and the two shared an appreciative smile.

“You know,” said Thoros, as he took a swig from his wine skin. “Despite the hostility between you two, you do make a good team.”

“You have a point,” muttered Arya in agreement.

Soon after a pyre had been built, to burn the bodies of the dead. Arya approached the pile of those ready to be fed to the flames, and sliced a sigil of House Bolton off a man’s armour.

As she moved towards the fire, she looked at the sigil, feeling hatred rising within her at the sight of the flayed man. When she reached the fire, she waited a moment before throwing it upon the fire.

As she watched the flayed man being enveloped by the flame, Arya saw it as taking symbolic revenge on House Bolton, for her mother and brother and for Torrhen and Beth’s children.

*

That night, after a few more hours’ travel, they made camp. They all huddled around several large campfires, cooking the meagre amount of meat that they had hunted through the day. Arya shared a fire with the Hound, Anguy, Beric and Thoros, cleaning Needle by the flickering light of the fire and allowing the conversation to run past her.

A blood-curdling howl split the night air.

Everyone fell silent immediately, fear spreading like mist throughout the camp. Arya strained her ears, gripping Needle’s hilt tightly. They all remained silent, listening hard.

The howl came again, closer this time.

Arya’s breathing quickened as fear gripped her chest. Torrhen’s stories of the wolf pack came unbidden into her mind, filling it with images of vicious wolves tearing flesh from bone. Shaking her head, she gripped Needle’s hilt so hard it caused her fingers to ache.

The howl came once more, so loud that Arya could have sworn it had come from beside her.

This time it was joined by others, some near while others further off. Before long the night air was filled with dozens of howls, giving them the impression that they were surrounded.

“Where the fuck are they?” growled the Hound, as he too drew his blade.

Arya turned to see him glancing all around them, no trace of fear on his face, no tremble in his hand. She looked around the fire, seeing the Brotherhood men all looking about them, desperately trying to see the approaching wolves.

All at once the howls stopped, leaving behind a silence so complete it was as if Arya had gone deaf. If it was possible, the sudden silence seemed to enhance the fear that was rippling through the Brotherhood men, who were still frantically looking around them.

Arya got slowly to her feet, feeling the Hound rising along with her. Their movement seemed to spur the men into action, as they too began to rise and draw their weapons. Arya looked into the darkness between the trees nearby, desperately trying to see any sign of movement. Once or twice she thought she saw something, but she didn’t get a clear look.

A low, rumbling growl caught the ear of everyone, causing one man to stumble backwards in fear, right into the still burning fire. As he thrashed about in the dirt, desperately trying to extinguish his burning clothes, all eyes turned to where the noise came from.

A pair of golden eyes glowed out of the darkness, several feet from the ground, causing many men to mumble curses as they staggered back from it.

“What the fuck is that?” muttered the Hound, gripping his blade even more firmly.

As the creature grew closer, its form melting out of the darkness, Arya’s feeling of fear subsided, to be replaced by one of knowledge and joy.

The tall, grey coloured form of Nymeria came into the light of the clearing. She had grown greatly since Arya had last seen her by the Trident, all those years before, as she was now nearly as tall as Arya’s horse.

The years in the Riverlands forests had clearly turned Nymeria wild. While Arya had not preened her coat in the same way that Sansa had with Lady, she had made sure that it looked neat, at least from a distance. Now her grey fur was shaggy and matted in several places with mud, and what looked suspiciously like blood.

Arya watched as Nymeria approached, making her way slowly into the clearing, still growling lowly. It didn’t look like Nymeria had seen her, as her golden eyes were fixed on the largest of the campfires, upon which cooked several plump rabbits. As the wolf grew closer, the men’s nerves stretched ever further, with even more readying their weapons. Arya saw several men nocking arrows, ready to fire them into her wolf.

“No!” Arya shouted, raising her hands. Her shout startled both man and wolf, with Nymeria’s eyes now fixed upon her, which Arya met with her own, her heart continuing to swell with happiness.

“What the fuck are you doing, girl?” growled the Hound, as he grasped her upper arm in a vice grip.

“She’s mine,” replied Arya, wrenching her arm from him angrily. “She’s my direwolf, Nymeria.”

A ripple of shock went through the men, with a few managing to avert their eyes to her for a moment, with muttered curses on their lips. Out of the corner of her eye, Arya could see Beric, Thoros and Anguy looking at her curiously, but she paid them no attention, with her eyes remaining fixed on Nymeria.

_I can hardly believe my eyes_ , thought Arya joyously, as she deeply into her wolf’s eyes. _I never truly thought I would see her again._

Without thinking, Arya began to walk towards Nymeria. She avoided the grasping hand of the Hound, who was desperate to keep her in place. She continued to walk towards her wolf, who was watching Arya’s approach with interest.

However, as Arya grew closer, Nymeria’s demeanour changed. She began to lower herself to the ground, hackles raising as she bared her teeth in a snarl. Arya froze, her fear returning slightly, tinged with sadness.

_She does not remember me!_ Arya thought desperately.

Despite Nymeria’s behaviour confusing Arya, she was determined to not let her get away this time, to make sure she stayed by her side. She raised her hand to Nymeria and began to move forward once more, much slower this time, so as to not startle her. While Nymeria did not calm much, she began to stop snarling and her nose started to twitch slightly, catching Arya’s scent on the air.

When she grew close, Arya stopped walking, keeping her hand raised, allowing Nymeria to close the distance. Her idea seemed to work, as Nymeria seemed to calm a little as she began to towards Arya, her curiosity seemingly getting the best of her. As Nymeria grew closer, Arya’s hand began to tremble a little, as the size of the wolf’s teeth now clearer.

Nymeria closed the distance at an almost agonising pace, which only served to set the Brotherhood even further on edge. So much so that Arya prayed that none of them would lose their wits and attack, causing her wolf to retaliate. Arya waited, with bated breath as Nymeria grew ever closer, until she stood in front of her, nearly a foot taller than Arya.

Arya kept her hand raised, hoping that she would recognise her scent at least, if not her face. Nymeria lowered her head towards Arya’s palm, her nose twitching as she sniffed in deeply. As she did so, Arya moved her hand forward and touched her warm face, feeling her fur beneath her hand.

Nymeria instantly backed away, her teeth bared once more in a snarl. As tears sprung to the corners of Arya’s eyes, she realised the reason for Nymeria’s behaviour.

_The last time she saw me, I was throwing rocks at her_ , she thought sadly, as guilt welled up within her. _Several hit her. She remembers that more than anything else I did._

Arya lowered her hand, and gazed at Nymeria, wishing that she could explain the reasons for her actions, to stop her from being killed for attacking Joffrey. While she knew that the direwolves were far smarter than normal dogs, she doubted that Nymeria would understand all that she said, as much as she wished it.

Arya lowered her head in sorrow. As she did so, she saw Nymeria move forward once more, this time to sniff her face. Arya started slightly, now looking into her wolf’s eye once more as she closed the distance.

As Nymeria leaned in to smell her face, Arya closed her eyes. She hoped that this would show her trust in the wolf, that she would not harm her. Doubts swelled in her mind but she pushed them away.

_She will not harm me_ , she thought resolutely. _I am sure of it._

Arya felt Nymeria’s hot breath on her face, memories of their time of Winterfell coming flooding back. Nymeria’s playful nature meant that she spent many hours bounding after Arya as she raced around Winterfell after her brothers, jumping up to lick at her face. As these memories of better times filled her head, the tears that brimmed in her eyes finally fell free.

As they fell down her face, Arya felt Nymeria’s hot tongue on her cheeks, causing her eyes to snap open in surprise. Nymeria was right in front her, eye to eye. She stopped licking her face when she saw that Arya’s eyes had opened, but she did not back away this time.

Seizing this as a good sign, Arya flung her arms around her wolf’s long neck and after a moment felt, to her joy, that Nymeria lowered herself down slightly to give her better grip. Arya buried her face in her grey fur, breathing in the familiar scent that she had forgotten until this moment, now mixed with various others from the forest.

“I’m sorry, Nymeria,” Arya said, her voice muffled. “I’m so sorry.”  

They stayed that way for a while, with Arya ignoring the disbelieving mutterings from all around her. When Arya finally let go, Nymeria licked her face one more time, causing Arya to smile broadly.

A smile that vanished when the sound of multiple wolves growling filled the clearing.

Arya snapped her head around to see several wolves entering the clearing from the left, their black fur rippling, with drool dripping from their muzzles as they advanced. At once, Nymeria moved in front of Arya, her own rumbling growls overpowering the sounds of the others. The wolves stopped in their tracks, observing this act with suspicion. They stayed that way for a moment, the tension rising, before Nymeria raced forward, causing them to scatter into the trees.

For a few moments, all they heard were the sounds of snarling and ripping, occasionally accompanied by the sound of a wounded animal whining in pain. Arya knew that Nymeria was fighting them off, to protect _her_. It filled her with happiness that she was willing to do that for her once again, as though nothing had happened.

“Arya!” roared the Hound suddenly, breaking her trance.

Arya turned to see a large wolf, much larger than the others, racing across the clearing towards her. As she raised Needle, ready to defend herself, her vision was obscured by a large grey streak as it darted across her, straight into the path of the oncoming wolf.

Nymeria rolled in the dirt with the wolf, their jaws snapping at the other’s throat, going for the kill. The other wolf sank its teeth into Nymeria’s leg, causing her to whine in pain. She raised herself up, pinning the struggling wolf to the floor with her front paws before lowering her head to its throat, which she tore out with the sound of ripping flesh.

Nymeria turned and padded her way towards Arya, her muzzle dripping with blood. She stopped in front of her and nudged Arya’s cheek with her nose, leaving a bloody print there. Chuckling slightly, Arya raised her hand and buried it in her fur.

“Thank you, Nymeria,” she said softly.

Nymeria cocked her head to the side at her words and looked so much like she did as a puppy, despite her blood-stained muzzle, that Arya burst into laughter.

“Well, girl,” said the Hound, as he stood next to her. “Travelling with you gets stranger and fucking stranger.”

Arya laughed a little harder as she walked back over to the campfire, with Nymeria walking beside her. As she did so, she noticed the looks of surprise on the faces of the Brotherhood men as they passed her to deal with the body of the wolf. This only served to improve her mood.

She sat herself back in the warmth of the fire and felt Nymeria lay down behind her, curling her body around Arya’s back as she licked her wounded leg. Smiling more, Arya shifts herself so that she was laying on the ground, with her head resting on Nymeria’s warm back, who moves her head so it is resting inches from Arya’s hand.

Sleep came quickly for them both, with the burning fire of happiness in Arya’s chest refusing to die out.

Happiness at finally being reunited with her beloved wolf.

*

For the next few days they continued their journey north, now accompanied by the large grey form of Nymeria, who raced alongside them. They faced a few further attacks from Nymeria’s former pack, but they were quickly seen off by the direwolf’s sharp teeth and claws.

The further north they travelled, the deeper the blanket of snow became, slowing their progress. But Arya was grateful for it. It was something that she remembered from Winterfell where, even in the summer, the snow would fall.

Several days later, the form of Winterfell appeared on the horizon, its familiar outline instantly recognisable despite it being many years since Arya had been in the North. The sight filled Arya with happiness once more, her face breaking into a wide smile.

_I am so close now_ , she thought, as they grew ever closer. _I will see Jon and Sansa soon._

Beric wanted to make camp for the night, and make for Winterfell at first light. But Arya was adamant for them to keep moving. She wanted to go home as soon as possible, even if they were to arrive in the dead of night. Beric was only moved when Arya threatened to continue on her own, regardless of anyone else’s company.

They continued towards Winterfell through the night, its many towers looming out of the darkness to greet them. As they approached the gate, Arya’s heart soared once more at the sight of the Stark sigil flying once more upon the walls. While she had not seen it herself, the thought of the Bolton flayed man flying on the walls of her home had made Arya’s blood boil.

As they stopped in front of the gate, two Stark guardsmen approached them, their weapons readied.  

“Who are you?” they called.

“I am Arya Stark, sister to Sansa and Jon. These men have travelled with me and kept me safe on my journey.”

If they had any doubt over the truth of her tale, they were swept away when Nymeria came into view, with their eyes widening at the sight. Tales had spread throughout the North about the Stark children and their direwolves, and these guards would have likely seen Ghost many times.

At the sight, they returned their eyes to Arya and bowed their heads to her.

“Welcome home,” they said as they opened the gate to allow them entry.

As they walked into the courtyard, Arya cast her eyes around her, taking in all the familiar sights. She could see the stables where she would help Jon and Robb saddle and feed their horses. She could see the tops of the trees in the godswood where she would race and chase her brothers. She could see the Maester’s tower where she had spent many hours, less than she should have, learning from Maester Luwin.

The sights caused her happiness to increase ever further and she slid down from her horse at once. She turned around several times, drinking it all in, hardly daring to believe that she was in fact home.

The guardsmen passed a message on to a few more Stark men who, after casting amazed looks in her direction, raced into the keep, no doubt to raise their King. Behind her, Arya was vaguely aware of the Brotherhood men dismounting from their horses and leading them to the stables. Nymeria padded off towards the godswood, her nose to the ground.

_She smells her brother_ , thought Arya with a smile.   

As Arya continued to look around her home, she noticed two dark shapes walking along the elevated bridge that stretched between the Armoury and the Great Keep. The sight caused Arya to furrow her brow in confusion.

_News of our arrival couldn’t have spread just yet_ , she thought, as began to make her way towards it. _Who is awake at this hour?_

As Arya stealthily made her way through the darkened courtyard, she moved into the shadow of the Great Keep to shroud her even deeper in the darkness. As he grew close, she flattened herself against the wall of the Great Keep, thanking the Gods for her slight frame as it proved far easier to hide.

As she watched, one of the men moved into the light of one of the torches, illuminating his face, one she vaguely remembered from her time in King’s Landing, all that time ago.

Petyr Baelish, Arya was sure he was called, also known as Littlefinger.

As Arya listened closer, their words drifted down to her.

“- influence can be yours if you join with me in this, my lord,” came Littlefinger’s oily voice.

“You speak of dangerous fucking things,” came the voice of the other man. “Treason! You would move against King Jon!”

“Yes, I would,” Littlefinger replied. “For the benefit of us all.”

Arya’s eyes widened as she grasped at the hilt of Needle, as anger thundered through her.

As she watched, Arya could have sworn that Littlefinger’s eyes found her in the gloom. She slowly eased herself further back into the shadows, trying desperately not to be seen. The moments passed in agonising silence, with Arya expecting him to herald her presence.

But he did not.

“You forget one thing, Lord Baelish,” came the other man’s voice. Littlefinger turned back to him, with what looked like a smug smirk upon his lips. “What of Lady Sansa? What will she make of you plotting against her brother?”

“Do not worry about her. Lady Sansa will play her part.”

Arya’s breathing quickened as shock crashed over her in waves.

_Sansa,_ she thought numbly. _Is she helping him? Plotting against our brother?_

The other man’s voice brought her back to her senses.

“She may be helping you, but I will not,” the lord said, drawing himself up to his impressive height. “Find someone else to aid you, you treacherous snake.”

“I would caution, my lord,” said Littlefinger, as the man turned to leave. “For you to hold your tongue over this little meeting of ours.”

“And, why would I do that?”

“Because, if you were to spill this secret of mine, several of yours might find their way from my lips. That of all the servant girls with bastards you have pumped into their bellies. That would do great damage to the honour of a man such as yourself.”

Silence fell at his words. Arya could see the lord quivering with rage at Littlefinger’s words, clearly restraining himself from grabbing the man by the throat.

“Watch yourself, Lord Baelish,” said the man finally, his voice shaking with fury. “One day, you will cross the wrong person, with no words to aid in your escape.”

Before Littlefinger could response, the lord turned and stormed back into the Great Keep. As Arya watched, Baelish turned and rested his arms on the railing of the bridge with his face illuminated by the burning torches, his smug look of triumph revealed.

At the sight, Arya drew Needle, ready to end the traitorous man’s life. She knew a small staircase lay on the other side of the bridge, that would allow her to sneak behind him, unnoticed.

However, as Arya began to move forward to begin, a familiar voice behind her caused her to freeze in shock and joy.

“Arya!” came Sansa’s joy filled voice.

Arya stood up and turned at the sound, all thoughts of treachery forgotten. Sansa was running towards her, her nightclothes and hastily worn cloak billowing around her as she ran. Needle fell from her numb fingers, clattering to the stone floor, as Arya ran towards her sister.

They met in a hug, full of so much vigour from Sansa that Arya was spun around to face the way she had come. Arya buried her face in her sister’s auburn hair, breathing in the smell and feeling the warmth of her skin against her, feeling unbidden tears of joy leak from her eyes.

“I cannot believe you are here!” came Sansa’s voice, muffled from its obstruction against Arya’s shoulder.

“It has been far too long without us together, Sansa,” replied Arya, feeling her sister press a kiss to her cheek.

At her touch, however, Arya remembered the conversation she had just overheard. She looked up towards Littlefinger, now observing their reunion with an unreadable expression on his face, with Arya returned with one full of murderous intent, her mind racing.

_Are they truly working together?_ Arya thought, as she refused to lower her gaze from the man. _I guess I will have to find out._


	12. Sam II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you are guys. A few revelations so I hope you enjoy.  
> I think I have made you wait long enough, so the next chapter will the first of three that show the Battle of Dragonstone, with the first being a Jon chapter.

 

Sam

 

In the few weeks since Jorah Mormont’s arrival, Sam’s routine had changed a little. Due to his promise to the Northern knight, Sam had begun to search for a potential cure for greyscale, in addition to all the other information that he was trying to discover.

He had found many references to greyscale, including how it supposedly came to the world, a supposed curse levelled by the Rhoynar Prince Garin the Great against his enemies. He also found many different methods of treating it, depending on the culture. The Free Folk believed that, even when the disease has stopped spreading, that greyscale never truly leaves a person and that they should be killed to prevent the spread. Sam had also read of how many people believe that soaking the infected area in vinegar or being treated with limes helps stop the disease from spreading.

His lack of luck in finding anything had been alleviated when he had inquired to various maesters, many of whom knew a great deal about medicine and diseases, about greyscale. Sam learned that there were several men who had helped to prevent the spread of Shireen’s greyscale who, when they learned about Jorah’s affliction, had gladly helped to treat the man. They had warned Jorah that, while they had cured Shireen, they were not sure exactly what had finally cured her, so he would have to go through a long process of treatments to potentially cure him, to which he had agreed with grim determination.

Sam visited Jorah’s room often, and had marvelled at the vast number of treatments that the maesters had used on the man. He had to drink countless vials of bitter concoctions, as well as wear a long leather sleeve and glove for hours upon end, which was filled with various foul smelling ointments and poultices. Whenever Jorah had worn the sleeve, the smell in the room had been so overpowering that Sam had often wanted to retch and could only imagine what it must be like for Jorah.

However, their efforts seem to worked, for the most part. His greyscale had spread all up his arm and had begun to stretch over his chest, but in the last few days its slow but steady progress had further slowed, to the point of almost being unnoticeable. Sam had been confident that Jorah was nearly cured, but the maesters had warned him that it was not confirmed yet so to temper his expectation.

Sam’s other research had also had a little luck. He had found a book detailing various mining techniques for obsidian that would allow it to be crafted into weaponry without breaking in the attempt. It had been written by an Archmaester who was still currently at the Citadel and Sam had found the maester in question who, after Sam’s explanation that he was there on the command of the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and needed to know all he could about it, the man had spent several hours with Sam, explaining to him the processes in detail. Sam had made copious amounts of notes, not missing a single step, so he could give it to Jon on his return to the Wall.

However, after these initial revelations, Sam’s research had once again slowed down and he had not found anything of note in several days.

Several days after Jorah’s greyscale had been slowed, Sam had been sat at his table in the library, surrounded by several dozen books as he poured over their pages. He was once again learning very little from his reading, and had just set aside yet another tome of information useless to him, when a young maester approached him.

“Samwell Tarly?” the man inquired.

“Yes,” Sam replied, turning to face him curiously.

“There has been a raven for you,” he said, holding out a scroll of parchment. “I believe it is from the Night’s Watch.”

Sam took the scroll with a murmur of thanks and the maester turned and left him alone. It had been a few weeks since he had sent his letter to Jon to tell him of his success at finding the crafting process for Valyrian steel. He had meant to send another after his discovery regarding the obsidian but he had not gotten to it yet.

Sam unfurled the scroll and saw, to his confusion, that it had not been written in Jon’s hand.

_Sam_

_A lot has happened since you left us._

_Jon is no longer here._

_He was mutinied against by Alliser Thorne. Thorne was helped by Bowen Marsh, Othell Yarwyck and even Olly. They killed Jon, stabbed him in the gut. Thorne took control of the Night’s Watch and tried to have us all killed. He would have too, if the Wildlings hadn’t helped._

_Stannis’ Red Woman brought Jon back from the dead and started calling him the Prince that was Promised, or some such shit. Jon hanged those traitors himself and then he left. He said that his vow had ended when he died. You were the one that was always talking about the different ways of interpreting the vows, so I guess we have you to thank for it, huh?_

_His sister Sansa showed up here, and they left soon after, to take back Winterfell. From what I heard he managed to get the Wildlings on side, as well as a few Northern Houses, and took back Winterfell from the Boltons. Jon was then named the King in the North. A bit of a step up from being the Lord Commander’s steward, right?_

_I guess I am the Lord Commander now. That is even fucking stranger. I have passed on the letter you sent to Winterfell for Jon to read, so you should probably send any more there too._

_I hope you and Gilly are well, Sam. We are going to need some good news with those fucking things coming for us._

_Your friend,_

_Edd_

Sam sat in stunned silence, reading and re-reading the information in front of him.

_Thorne killed Jon_ , Sam thought, with a surge of anger. _I know he and Jon have hated each other since they met, but I never thought that Thorne would attempt to kill Jon._

Sam thought about how Jon had died, stabbed by his brothers. Sam couldn’t imagine the betrayal and pain that Jon must have felt in that moment, especially from Olly. He knew that Jon and Olly’s friendship became strained after Jon had aided the Wildlings, after some of whom had murdered and eaten Olly’s family.

However, Jon had taken Olly under his wing and spent a lot of time teaching and training with him, even making him his personal steward and it angered Sam that Olly could disregard that because of traitorous words whispered into his ear by Alliser Thorne. While Sam knew that helping the Wildlings was against what a lot of Night’s Watch brothers believed, and had probably been one of the main causes behind the mutiny, he also knew that it was what _had_ to be done to combat the White Walker threat.

_Why can’t they look past their petty prejudices?_ Sam wondered, as he remembered how Gilly had been treated with scorn by his brothers. _Can’t they see that the White Walkers are the true threat, and not the Wildlings?_

Sam looked back to the letter and read about Jon’s resurrection. Sam hadn’t had much contact with Stannis’ Red Woman, although he knew her name to be Melisandre. He remembered how he had been confused over her lack of warm clothing in the freezing temperatures, as she had been dressed like she was in the South.

The fact that she brought Jon back from the dead terrified him, despite his gratefulness that it had happened. Sam had seen White Walkers and their reanimated thralls, and had hoped that would be the only instances of dead people rising that he would ever see.

_The Prince that was Promised_

Sam looked at the words with a sense of recognition. He was sure he had heard the words before, or at the very least read them, but he couldn’t place where from. He would have to think hard about it, or hope that he crossed over it again while reading.

_Jon is a King?_ Sam thought admiringly, proud of his friend. _Edd is right. That is a step up from a steward at the Night’s Watch._

He thought of Jon back in Winterfell, the place where he had grown up and had missed greatly while at the Night’s Watch. He was filled with a sense of happiness that Jon was able to go home, with his family. Jon had spoken a little about Sansa, but Sam knew that the two had a strained relationship while growing up, so he was glad they had seemed to patch up their problems.

His thoughts were interrupted by low voices on the other side of the bookcase nearest to him, so close that he couldn’t help but overhear.

“I received a letter from Pylos,” came a deep voice. “He remains on Dragonstone. He says that Daenerys Targaryen has landed there with her army and her dragons.”

“ _Dragons?_ Don’t be absurd,” came a second, more reedy voice that was dripping with derision and disbelief. “The dragons died out centuries ago.”

“No longer. According to Pylos, she has three of them. One of them apparently looks like Balerion the Black Dread reborn.”

“Is it true?” came the second voice, now sounding a little concerned.

“I’ve never known Pylos to lie. It would appear that Daenerys Targaryen, and her dragons, have returned home.”

Sam exhaled deeply, having begun to hold his breath unconsciously.

_Daenerys is here. In Westeros._

When Sam had sent the letter to Jon about the Valyrian steel, he had assumed that Daenerys was still in Essos and that her aid in making the blades was not very likely due to the distance between them but had mentioned anyway purely out of desperation. But now she was here, within reasonable distance, with her _dragons_. He would have to send Jon a letter as soon as possible, so he could set sail for Dragonstone.

He had just reached out to grab some parchment when the voices began speaking once more, grabbing his attention immediately.

“And that is not all that Pylos tells of,” the deep voice boomed. “Apparently, the new King in the North has arrived to parley with her.”

Sam’s heart skipped at this information, hardly daring to believe it.

_Jon is already there!_

“I didn’t know that there _was_ a new King in the North.”

“Oh yes,” came the first voice again, now sounding seemingly triumphant that he knew something that his companion didn’t. “Jon Snow, Eddard Stark’s bastard son, retook Winterfell with an army of Wildlings and was proclaimed as the White Wolf by the Northern Houses, as they named him their king.”

“A bastard as king? I thought we had just gotten rid of one of those.”

“Lower your fucking voice,” hissed the other man, lowering his voice menacingly. “All it takes it someone to send word to the capital, hoping for some favour from the Queen, and you will be executed by Cersei Lannister.”

“It has to tell her something though”, continuing the man doggedly, despite lowering his voice so much that Sam had to leave his chair and move closer in order to hear. “When the Starks and the Targaryens would rather talk than kill each other, that should say something about how much Cersei is despised.”

“I agree with you. But from what Pylos is saying, the Stark and Targaryen alliance hasn’t gotten off to a great start. When they first met, it was… _tense_ apparently.”

“Not surprising though, is it? Considering their history.”

Sam nodded silently to himself in agreement, as the two maesters gathered their belongings and left the library. He had read a lot about Robert’s Rebellion and the causes of it. The Starks had been one of the most affected by the madness of King Aerys, with two family members being killed on his orders with another being kidnapped, and later dying, by his son, Rhaegar.

_If Jon has gone to Dragonstone to seek Daenerys’ aid, it must be about the White Walkers_ , thought Sam.

As he thought this, a memory struck Sam. He remembered Stannis talking about Dragonstone, and the vast quantities of obsidian that were on the island.

_And now Jon is there,_ Sam thought. _I have to find some way of getting all the notes I have made to him. I can’t go myself yet, as I have not learned enough. There must be more for me to learn here._

His mind wandered to Daenerys, and he wondered what kind of person she was. Sam knew that many of the Targaryens went mad, with her father being the most recent of them, but he wondered if she too had followed this family trait.

Struck by a sudden need for knowledge about it, Sam wandered over to the section of the library that contained the tomes of family histories. He found that the Targaryen family, and its various offshoots like House Blackfyre, had multiple tomes dedicated to it. Grabbing them all he made his way back to his table and immersed himself in them.

The Targaryens had ruled in Westeros since Aegon the Conqueror had landed here with his three dragons, Balerion, Vhagar and Meraxes. It was a comparison with Daenerys that was not lost on Sam. Sam read more and more, filling his head with information that was either completely new to him or only half-remembered.

As he finished reading about the four failed Blackfyre Rebellions, which culminated in the War of the Fivepenny Kings, a hand clamped onto his shoulder, making him jump from his seat in shock.

He turned to see Jorah looking at him, with a look of amused confusion on his face. Sam could see that he was still wearing his long sleeve over his left arm and could tell, from the faint bitter odour, that he was receiving his latest round of poultices applied to his arm.

“Gods, Jorah,” said Sam weakly, as he returned to his seat.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” said Jorah, smiling slightly as he took a seat next to him. “I called your name but you were completely engrossed in whatever book you have there.

“So,” he continued as he leaned forward to look at the books spread on the table. “What book has you so interested that you have turned deaf?”

Sam closed the book to show Jorah the cover and, to his surprise, a wide smile crossed his face.

“Ah, so you have an interest in the Targaryens do you?”

“Only on behalf of my friend, Jon,” said Sam, pushing the book away from him. “I’ve just heard that he has been named the King in the North and has sailed to Dragonstone to parlay with Daenerys Targaryen.”

Jorah sat bolt upright, his smile widening ever further as a look of shock mingled with the happiness.

“Daenerys is here?” he croaked.

“You know her?” asked Sam, a little confused.

“Yes, I served under her while she was in Essos. She often spoke of her desire to come home. It is incredible that she has finally managed it.”

“Let’s just hope that she is better than her father,” said Sam, allowing a little bitterness into his voice.

“She is, Sam,” said Jorah, nodding reassuringly at him. “She is _far_ better.”

They sat in silence for a moment, both contemplating the dragon sigil emblazoned on the cover of the book.

“You said that your friend Jon has gone to meet with her,” said Jorah finally, tearing his eyes away from the book. “You’ve told me a little about him. What kind of a man is he?”

Sam furrowed his brow slightly in confusion at the question.

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, Jon has gone to meet with Daenerys and I have technically not left her service. She commanded me to find the cure for the greyscale and then return to her. I would like to know a little about the man she is meeting.”

Sam nodded slightly.

“Jon is a good man, Jorah,” Sam said, looking at him. “Your father saw it too. He named Jon to be his personal steward and groomed him for command of the Night’s Watch.”

“My father was a good judge of character,” said Jorah, his eyes downcast slightly. Sam knew he was feeling guilty for the dishonour he had brought to his father and their family name. “He must have had a great opinion of the man.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” came a small voice from behind them. “May I join you?”

Sam turned to see Archmaester Willem making his way toward them, so Sam stood up and offered the old man his chair, which he accepted with a nod of thanks.

“Ah, the Targaryen family,” said the old man, as he tapped the leather cover of the book. “Fascinating amount of history there. What is your interest in them, Samwell?” 

“I take it you have heard about the King in the North’s visit to Dragonstone, maester?” said Sam.

The maester nodded slowly in response, with an unusual look on his face.

“Well, Jon Snow is my friend, and I wanted to know a little about the family he has gone to meet, particularly given the tension they have with the Starks.”

“Ah yes,” said the maester, nodding sagely. “There is no love lost between those two families, particularly after the Rebellion. What is your interest, Ser Jorah? If you don’t mind my asking?”

“I serve Queen Daenerys,” he replied shortly.

At this, the look of Willem’s face intensified, which Sam now recognised as a look of triumph and realisation.

“I think you two should come with me. I have something that you both should see.”

*

A short while later, the three of them were walking through the chambers below the Citadel. The bright light and relative warmth of above, despite the oncoming winter, had given way to the dark and damp, with the only light being given by torches that were lit along the stark stone walls.

Willem led the way, his long chain jangling in time with his slow, ambling steps. Sam and Jorah followed him, each looking around them at their surroundings and occasionally sharing a surprised look.

Sam looked along the walls and saw that in each of the recesses stood a large wrought iron door, that was so securely sealed that Sam wouldn’t have been surprised to have found mounds of gold and jewels behind each one.

“What is this?” asked Jorah, as he continued to look about him.

“The Citadel is a place of knowledge, where anyone can learn what they wish if they have the intellect and the patience for it.

“However, there are some things that are too dangerous or too evil to be available to just anyone. And that is what these vaults are for, to seal them away from prying eyes. No one can access all of the vaults, not even the Archmaesters.”

“What do you keep down here?” asked Sam in a hushed voice, feeling a chill go down his spine as they walked along.

“Many things Samwell, but I wouldn’t be so arrogant as to claim I know them all. I do know, for example, that there are manuscripts locked down here that detail some of the most heinous rituals known to man, with various dark magics involved. And this is where they should stay, far from those foolish enough to believe that they can profit from such barbarism.”

Sam heard the vehemence in the old man’s voice and couldn’t help but be shocked by it. He had never heard the man raise his voice in anger or contempt to anyone. So, for him to use the tone of voice that he was, these items that were locked away must be despicable.

“But what I am to show you,” said Willem, as he stopped in front of one of the doors and started to unlock it, “may not be as evil as what I have just described, but it is no less dangerous and potentially destructive.”

Sam and Jorah shared a look of surprise and curiosity.

_What could he be wanting to show us?_ Sam wondered. _It must be something to do with Jon and Daenerys or he wouldn’t have brought us when he did._

Willem pulled the chain away from the door and struggled to open the heavy metal door, so Jorah stepped forward to help. Between the two of them, the door opened with its ancient hinges creaking loud enough to rouse the dead.

The three stepped inside the small room, barely larger than Sam’s quarters all those floors above their heads. There was a small desk in the middle of the room and the walls were lined with various cabinets and bookcases that groaned under the weight of their forbidden knowledge.

Willem lit the candle and torches around the room and bathed the room in their glow. He walked over to a drawer, which he unlocked with a key that he had on a small chain around his neck, and pulled out a roll of parchment, which he carried over to his desk.

“I think you two should sit down,” the maester said, as he took his seat and indicated to the two others opposite him.

Sam and Jorah took the proffered seats, sharing another perplexed look. Willem regarded them both with a look of pity and, unless Sam was seeing things, dread.

“I have had this letter sealed down here for twenty years, waiting to know what to do with it. But it seems that the time has come to share its contents.”

The old man took a deep breath, and scrubbed his face with his hands. Steeling himself, he opened the scroll and read it aloud.

“ _This is a declaration that in the year 281 AL, Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen, the Prince of Dragonstone, and Lady Lyanna of House Stark were wed in the sight of the Seven and the Old Gods of the Forest._

_“As a result of their union, their son, the Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen, was born, now third in line to the Iron Throne of Westeros.”_

Willem finished reading and an unnatural hush fell in the room. Sam was stunned, barely able to think or breathe. Sam looked out of the corner of his eye and saw that Jorah had gone a little pale.

“I thought that Rhaegar had married Elia Martell. How could he have taken a second wife?” Sam said, more thinking aloud than anything.

“Come now, Samwell,” said Willem patiently. “Think about it. The Targaryens have never paid much attention to what the Faith of the Seven wanted. They wed brother to sister for generations and, in many cases, took multiple wives. Aegon the Conqueror, for example, wed both of his sisters.”

“Third in line?” said Jorah suddenly, drawing all eyes to him. “It said that Jaehaerys was the third in line to the Throne.”

“I believe that when this document was written Aerys was still alive, or at the least believed alive by whomever wrote it. Rhaegar had an older son remember? Aegon, who would have rule after his father.”

“When did you receive this?” Jorah asked.

“It arrived two days after we received word of King’s Landing sacking, and the death of Aerys. In light of that, and Robert Baratheon’s coronation as the new King of the Seven Kingdoms, I locked it away down here.

“Once he had returned to Winterfell, I sent a message to Lord Eddard Stark, to inform him of the document’s existence and what I had done with it. He agreed with me that, if it were made known publicly, it could incite another civil war, so he bid me to keep it sealed away.

“There were still many Houses that were loyal to the Targaryens, but had only bent the knee out of fear of Robert and his vengeance. If they had known about this Jaehaerys then they might have rallied behind him and declared against Robert once more.

“There was another reason why I kept it hidden,” continued Willem, a note of sadness creeping into his voice now. “My own conscience.”

Sam looked into the man’s eyes, completely bemused by his declaration. A quick glance at Jorah showed that he seemed as confused as he was. At the sight of their confusion the old man sighed deeply and rested his head in hands, and addressed the table top.

“When the news of the Sack of King’s Landing reached us, it came with the news that Prince Rhaegar’s older children, Aegon and Rhaenys, were slain by the Mountain. He dashed the infant Aegon’s head against the wall, and then wrapped the two bodies in Lannister cloaks and presented them to Robert.”

Willem raised his head and there was a note of anger in his voice now.

“ _King_ Robert,” the old man spat, more vehemence in his voice now than Sam had ever heard. “He did not condemn that monster’s actions. No, he merely declared the young children ‘dragonspawn’, and the Lannisters were rewarded for their actions.

“After destroying the Targaryen lineage Robert Baratheon had sealed his fierce reputation, as well as his known hatred of the Targaryens. If he knew about the child’s existence, he would have stopped at nothing until he hunted the boy down and killed him. I could not have lived with myself if I had allowed another innocent child to die because of the content of this document.”

Sam exhaled deeply, completely overwhelmed by the information.

_This is more than anything I expected,_ Sam thought. _But Willem was right. This is just as destructive as anything else that are in these vaults._

“So, Ser Jorah,” said Willem, his tone calm and even once more. “It would seem that Queen Daenerys has a nephew out there somewhere, one who potentially has a better claim to the Throne than herself.”

_And Jon has a cousin that he doesn’t know about,_ Sam thought.

“That is true,” replied Jorah. “But does Jaehaerys know of his birth? And even if he does, would he be a good king?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Willem, smiling slightly. “But the ability to be a good king is not always required in the heir to the throne, is it? Joffrey Baratheon is a perfect example.”

Jorah nodded slightly in agreement, as Sam leaned forward as a thought struck him.

“Where is Jaehaerys now? What happened to him?”

“I do not know Samwell. I have heard nothing about him in the last twenty years. He could have been taken to Essos, or even further east for all anyone knows.”

At that moment, Jorah sat bolt upright, his head turning towards the door. Sam followed his gaze, a little confused by his sudden action.

“Jorah, what is it?” asked Sam quietly.

“I heard something,” the man said as he got to his feet.

At that moment, they heard the sound of someone running away from the door. Jorah bolted to the door, with Sam following as fast as he could. As they entered the corridor, they saw the dark form of a man slipping into the shadows at the far end of the corridor.

“He could have heard everything that we said,” said Willem, who was now standing the doorway.

“It doesn’t matter,” replied Sam, thinking quickly. “Whoever he is, he can’t prove anything without the document.”

“Sam’s right,” said Jorah, his eyes still fixed on the shadows of the corridor. “Lock that up as tightly as you can, and maybe hire some guards to stand outside. Whoever he is, he might come back.”

As Willem returned to the room, Sam’s mind continued to churn with possibilities.

Who was that man? Did he already know about the contents of the room and had come to test out its defence? Or was he just an opportunistic eavesdropper who got lucky?

_Neither of which is a comforting thought_

*

A week later, Sam sat eating his evening meal with Gilly and Little Sam. So far there had been no attempt to breach the vault according to Willem, who had hired three mercenaries from Oldtown to act as the guards.

Sam turned away from Gilly and Little Sam with a smile on his face, and saw Jorah approaching him, dressed for travelling, with a large satchel over his shoulder. A few days before the maesters had told him that his greyscale had been cured, to the man’s joy. He had immediately begun preparing for his journey to Dragonstone, to reunite with Daenerys.

Sam rose from the table to greet him, with a small leather satchel in his hands.

“Well, it seems that this is goodbye, then Sam,” said Jorah warmly, extending his hand to him.

Sam took it, smiling back at him.

“Goodbye Jorah. It was good to meet you.”

Jorah turned to say his goodbyes to Gilly and Little Sam, who seemed to have taken to the Northern knight.

“You know, Sam,” Jorah said as he straightened up. “This does not have to be goodbye. You could come with me to Dragonstone, all three of you.”

Sam smiled again, a little ruefully this time.

“It is tempting, Jorah. But I need to stay here for now. I am not sure that I have learned all I can from the library here. Until I am sure that there is nothing more of note I can lean, I cannot leave.”

Jorah nodded in reply, shaking his head a little in exasperation.

“I thought you might say that,” he said as they shook hands once more. “Do not worry. I shall tell Jon, if he remains at Dragonstone, that you have arrived here safely.”

“Thank you, Jorah,” replied Sam, as he walked with him into the vast courtyard and towards the large gates, flanked by their sphinxes. “I was wondering if you could do something else for me?”

“I will tell them _both_ about Jaehaerys,” Jorah replied, placing his hand on Sam’s shoulder reassuringly. “Do not worry.”

“Thank you, but that is not _all_ I meant,” Sam replied as he handed Jorah the satchel. “Can you give this to Jon? It contains all the notes I have collected, on dragonglass and Valyrian steel including how to make more. I think both Jon and Daenerys would need to see that.”

“I think you are right,” Jorah said as he placed the thin package in his satchel. “Do not worry, I will make sure that it reaches them.”

With this, he clapped Sam on the shoulder once more and made his way through the gates, beginning his journey to Dragonstone. Sam watched his new friend go with a sense of sadness at his departure and happiness and pride that his research would finally find its way into Jon’s hand.

_I hope all is well with you on Dragonstone, Jon_ , Sam thought, as he turned and headed back into the Citadel when he lost sight of Jorah. _And I hope my notes find their way to you without incident._


	13. Jon III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go guys, my first proper battle chapter. I hope you enjoy it (and that it makes sense!)  
> Let me know in the comments what you think.  
> Next up will be Tyrion

 

Jon

 

Jon stood on the balcony alongside Tormund, Daenerys, Varys, Tyrion and Daenerys’ handmaiden Missandei as they looked down at the oncoming ships, as darkness began to fall. The Iron Fleet was growing ever closer, spearheaded by a large war galley that Jon assumed was Euron’s, as they continued to approach Daenerys’ fleet, which was quickly forming into a defensive line.

The closer the ships came, Jon could see that there were several scarlet sails among the dark mass of the Greyjoy’s.

_Lannisters_ , thought Jon angrily. _Of course, they are behind this._

“Fucking hell!” came a furious voice from behind them.

Jon turned to see Yara Greyjoy returning to the room, looking thunderous, and took her place standing alongside Daenerys’ other generals, who Jon recalled as being named Grey Worm and Barbarro.

“Are we ready for their attack, Yara?” Daenerys asked, in a firm, commanding tone.

“We are,” Yara said, as she approached the balcony. “They are approaching from the south, and have been joined by some Lannister ships, no doubt picked up as they passed Lannisport.”

“What about from Blackwater Bay?” Davos asked, rising from his seat and approaching the balcony. “Are there any ships coming from there? We don’t want to be caught by a flanking manoeuvre.”

“So far there have been none,” Yara replied as turned her gaze west, where the shore of Westeros was laid out. “But we have positioned scouts to warn us of any that approach.”

Jon turned to look at the approaching ships, as night continued to fall around them. He knew that before long the battle would be shrouded in darkness, which was not a favourable option.

“How many ships are there?” Tyrion asked, who was for once sober, in the face of the coming battle.

“With the Lannister ships joining my uncle’s, they might just outnumber us,” replied Yara, her tone bitter. “It will be a hard fight, as they no doubt will have ballistae and catapults.”

“But we have my dragons,” replied Daenerys, turning her gaze to the fleet. “They will no doubt be of some use, against their wooden ships.”

As Jon heard the others agree with Daenerys, he too looked to the oncoming Ironborn and his hand unconsciously wrapped around the hilt of Longclaw.

“How many men can their ships hold?” Jon asked, turning around to face Yara.

“Euron’s longships can hold a hundred men each, and he has at least sixty out there,” Yara replied. “The Lannister war galleys hold more and there are around two dozen of them joining Euron.”

Jon nodded as he turned to Daenerys and met her violet eyes, which were looking at him with curiosity.

“If they should land,” Jon said resolutely, continuing to hold her gaze. “I know that you probably have the men to defeat them, but I will fight with your men to repel the Ironborn.”

Jon watched as Daenerys’ face broke into a grateful smile, which served to enhance her beautiful features. She reached out and grasped his bicep and squeezed gently, continuing to smile at him.

“Thank you, Jon,” she said quietly, not averting her gaze. “I appreciate it.”

Jon knew that his sword, and the few Stark men that he had brought with them, would likely not make much impact on the coming battle but he also knew that Daenerys’ gratitude had little to do with that. She was grateful that Jon was willing to fight alongside her men, rather than command his men to do so in his stead. Jon nodded solemnly at her, reaffirming his promise. Daenerys then turned to her generals.

“Grey Worm, Barbarro, I want you to prepare your men in case the Ironborn manage to land. Tell the smallfolk to remain in their homes until the battle is over.

“And, Barbarro,” she called after him as he turned to leave. “Remind your men that the people of Dragonstone are to remain _unharmed_. I know what the Dothraki are like during battle.”

Barbarro looked at her for a moment mutinously, as though he was considering to argue, but clearly thought better of it and left the room alongside Grey Worm.

“I will go too,” said Yara, as she turned to the door. “I will return to my ship, with my brother.”

“Good luck, Yara,” said Daenerys. “Do not fall.”

Jon watched as the two women shared a determined nod before Yara turned and left the room.

As one, everyone turned back to the sea, to the approaching army. As they continued to come ever closer, and night began to take hold, Jon felt a feeling of nervous anticipation begin to swell up inside him. It had been the same before the Wildlings had attacked the Wall and the night before they had retaken Winterfell. He was not scared about the coming battle, but he couldn’t lie that he was not nervous about its outcome.

_There is no Melisandre to wish me back to life if I should fall_ , thought Jon morosely.

A sudden screech brought Jon from his thoughts. He looked up to see Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion circling above them, around the tower that they were in. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw Daenerys look up towards her dragons, with a look of pride on her face. From the little that she had spoken about them Jon had noticed the pride and affection that she held for her dragons, like a mother would have for her children.

Tyrion had told him of the bond that Daenerys shared with her dragons, and particularly with Drogon. He had spoken of how the dragons had hatched, when Daenerys had walked into the burning funeral pyre of her husband Khal Drogo and had emerged unharmed, a feat that she had repeated when gaining her Dothraki army.

_Her tales are as equally unbelievable as my own_ , Jon thought with a smile.

Below them a horn sounded, and Jon turned to see that Euron’s fleet had come close enough to engage with their catapults. A few fiery projectiles flew through the air towards Daenerys’ ships, but only one found its mark. It exploded on the hull of one of the former slave master ships but before the fire could take hold, the waves extinguished them. While they had been extremely lucky with the first volley, Jon knew that it wouldn’t be long before their aim became true and the flames would take hold.

Jon, his attention on the battle, heard Daenerys say something in a language he did not recognise. He turned to see her looking up to the dragons who, at her command, flew towards the oncoming ships, screeching loudly. Jon watched as they dived down, the smaller two gliding between the masts of Daenerys’ ships, and began to breathe fire at their enemy.

“What language was that?” Jon asked, turning to Daenerys.

“Valyrian,” she replied, not averting her gaze from her dragon’s assault on the Ironborn. “As I raised them, I taught them to obey commands in Valyrian. I just commanded them to attack our enemy.”

Jon turned back to the battle, and saw that an Ironborn longship were already ablaze. Daenerys’ fleet also began to engage the enemy, their own catapults finding their targets, as well as the war galleys moving forward to begin ramming the Lannister ships. Jon looked down and saw numerous torches illuminated along the shoreline, the bearers of which were only dimly visible through the darkness. However, Jon could see that their numbers were vast, an imposing sight for any Ironborn who landed.

As the battle raged on, for what seemed like hours, Jon could see that the two sides were very evenly matched and the battle had quickly devolved into a stalemate, one that would need to be broken quickly.

“King Jon,” said Davos suddenly. “I’ve had an idea.”

“Please share, Ser Davos,” replied Jon, continuing to watch as Rhaegal and Viserion set a Lannister galley ablaze, with the faint screams of its crew reaching their ears even from so far away.

“I will take a small ship, filled with some of Queen Daenerys’ best soldiers, and I will sail for Euron’s command ship. They will steal on board and deal with Euron. Without their commander, the Ironborn will fall into chaos, and give us the advantage.”

Jon turned to Davos, and saw that the man’s face was covered with grim determination.

“Have you gone mad?” Jon asked, completely baffled by this proposal. “You plan to attack the largest ship in their fleet, in the middle of a battle and attack their commander. How do you expect to get that close?”

“My whole life on the sea was spent avoiding other ships. I can get close without them seeing us.”

“And how are you going to do that?” Jon demanded, growing even more confused. “They are attacking any ship not their own on sight.”

Davos took a deep breath and feel silent for a moment, with the only noises in the room being the long distant sounds of battle.

“Do you know how I met Stannis Baratheon, Your Grace?”

Jon furrowed his brow, not sure where his argument was going.

“I don’t think so.”

“It was during Robert’s Rebellion. A year into the siege of Storm’s End I managed to avoid the Redwyne fleet to provide food for those who held it. They were blockading the entirety of Shipbreaker Bay and I still managed to get past them, while they were looking for anyone trying to get past them to aid those holding Storm’s End.

“If I can do that, I am sure I can get my ship to Euron’s galley in the dark of night while the crew are busy worrying about Queen Daenerys’ fleet and dragons.”

“But I thought you were a smuggler, Ser Davos,” said Daenerys curiously. “Not a sailor of a fleet. Why would you enter a battle such as this?”

“Well, I would still be smuggling, Your Grace. Only this time it would be soldiers, rather than onions and salted beef.”

Jon was silent for a moment, thinking hard. Davos’ argument was making more and more sense the more he thought on it. He was undoubtedly a skilled smuggler and taking Euron out of the battle would definitely be a boon for them, sending the enemy into disarray. Jon grimaced slightly, knowing that he would find it difficult to argue with him.

Jon took a step forward, and grasped Davos’ shoulder firmly and looked him in the eye.

“Are you sure that you can do this and survive the attempt?”

“As sure as I can be, my king.”

Jon sighed resignedly and held out his hand to Davos.

“Then I wish you good luck, my friend.”

Davos took Jon’s hand and nodded determinedly, before turning to leave.

“Wait a moment, Ser Davos,” called Daenerys suddenly. “I have had an idea.

“Jon,” she said as she turned to him. “I think it would of use to us if Ser Davos were to capture Euron Greyjoy alive. Do you agree?”

Jon turned to Daenerys, initially a little confused at her asking for his counsel. However, he quickly realised that this was the first instance of their alliance at work. Thinking fast, Jon weighed up the advantages and disadvantages of Daenerys’ idea.

By bringing Euron to them alive, they could potentially gain some knowledge of Cersei Lannister’s plans to against their alliance and could move against them. They could also, although Jon found it quite distasteful, coerce the remaining Ironborn to side with them against Cersei.

Whereas if they killed Euron it might gain them a little more favour with Yara, who was already allied with them, but it also would deprive Cersei of a vital part of her strength at sea, a heavy blow to their enemy.

Jon nodded slightly and turned to Davos.

“If it is possible, bring Euron Greyjoy to us alive,” he said solemnly. “However, if it would mean your death to do so, I would rather Euron’s head be brought before us.”

Jon turned to Daenerys as he said this, as if daring her to contradict him on this but she did not, merely nodding her agreement. Jon turned back to Davos, who grimly nodded his understanding of his orders and turned to leave.

“Speak to Grey Worm about taking some of the Unsullied with you, Ser Davos,” said Daenerys kindly, as he continued towards the door.

“I will, Your Grace,” he said, turning back briefly. “I thank you.”

As Davos tried to leave the room once more, Tormund grasped his shoulder.

“Do not die, you mad fuck.” Tormund laughed.

Davos chuckled slightly and nodded as he patted Tormund on the back.

As Davos left, Jon turned back to the battle and saw that while they had been talking several more ships had been set ablaze, with their flickering light reflecting off the sea and illuminating the island’s beaches, with the scores of Dothraki and Unsullied, joined here and there by the few Westerosi soldiers who had been on the island, standing ready to fight off the invaders.

The battle raged on, with several more of Euron’s Ironborn ships being set aflame by the vast diving shadows that Jon knew to be Daenerys’ children. However, Daenerys’ fleet were not without their own losses, with at least six ships being lost, and those were just the ones that were in Jon’s eyeline.

As they all lost themselves in watching the battle unfold with almost grim fascination, the door swung open once and they all turned to see an Unsullied enter the room. He hurried across the room before falling onto one knee before Daenerys and began speaking urgently to her in a language that Jon could only assume was also Valyrian.

“What did the man say, Daenerys?” asked Tyrion as soon as the Unsullied stopped speaking.

“He carries a message from Grey Worm,” she replied solemnly as she turned to them with a grave look on her face. “Three of Euron’s longships have broken through the lines and are heading for the eastern shore.”

“Three longships?” replied Varys, and for the first time since Jon had met him he sounded concerned. “Three hundred men?”

“He says that Grey Worm and Barbarro have taken some of their men to deal with these invaders,” continued Daenerys.

“What about the main battle, Your Grace?” Tyrion asked, looking aghast. “The men will be lost without a commanding presence.”

Daenerys turned back to the man and began speaking urgently once more, every eye in the room on them. She soon turned back to them looking a little angry.

“Randyll Tarly has taken control of the Southern shore. Grey Worm has left his second in command, Black Rat, behind to aid him by commanding the Unsullied forces.”

Jon let out a relieved sigh. Randyll Tarly was a renowned battle commander, having led the Royalist forces in the Battle of Ashford, which turned out to be the only battle that Robert Baratheon ever lost in the Rebellion.

_If anyone can hold the beach, it is him_ , thought Jon, a little confused by Daenerys’ anger.

“What about the Dothraki?” asked Missandei, clearly unsettled by this news. “Barbarro is the only of them that speaks the Common Tongue.”

“He just left,” Daenerys said bitterly. “He took nearly two hundred men and left.”

Jon, finally understanding the consequences of Barbarro’s actions, sighed and scrubbed his face with his hands.

“Do not worry, my Queen,” said Tyrion, as he patted her forearm reassuringly. “The Dothraki will do what they do best: fight. And with Tarly leading the Unsullied, it gives us an advantage on the field.”

“I hope you are right, Tyrion,” said Daenerys darkly, clearly not fully placated by his words, before turning to the Unsullied and speaking to him once more in Valyrian.

As the Unsullied left the room, Jon turned back to the battle and, once he saw the burning ships on the sea, he quickly came to a decision.

“I will join them,” he said resolutely.

Ignoring the surprised looks from Daenerys and her companions, Jon turned to Tormund.

“I’m going to help Grey Worm and Barbarro,” he said, seeing a grin spread across Tormund’s face. “Are you with me?”

“Always, Jon Snow,” his friend replied, his grin widening ever further as he clapped Jon on the shoulder.

“We will need to get Ghost from my chambers,” Jon said, as they headed for the door.

“Jon!” called Daenerys suddenly.

Jon turned to back to her and saw her standing in front of the wide balcony, looking towards him. Her silver hair was being blown all around her determined face by the night winds, her purple eyes shining brightly in the half-light and her whole figure silhouetted against the burning glow of the fires behind her.

“Don’t die,” she said softly. “Either of you.”

Jon nodded briefly, feeling a little surprised, but pleased, by her concern for them. He and Tormund turned once more and headed from the room. Outside were half a dozen Unsullied, who barely spared them a glance as they raced past them.

Jon headed for his chambers with Tormund close behind him, their footsteps echoing around the stark corridors. As they raced through the now deserted corridors, the sounds of the battle raging outside were now muffled but still a present reminder of what was happening.

Before long they arrived at Jon’s chamber, and he threw open the door to see Ghost sitting on his hind legs with his front paws on the window ledge as he peered outside, clearly trying to see what all the noise was. At the sound of the door opening, he turned to Jon and made his way towards him.

“Come on, boy,” said Jon as he stood to one side to allow Ghost to go past him. “We need you.”

The now three strong party raced through the halls once more, heading for the exit. When they exited the keep and turned to check on the progress of the battle, Jon let out a low whistle.

“Holy fuck!” muttered Tormund under his breath.

From their vantage point, Jon could see that there were now at least thirty ships ablaze, with their flickering light reflecting off the surface of the sea and lighting up the island. As they watched Drogon and Viserion both dived at one of the Lannister galleys, swirling and dodging the various flaming projectiles that were being fired at them, and both shot a vast jet of flame into the deck of the ships, causing dozens of screams of pain to reach their ears as the crew were burned alive.

“This is fucking mad!” said Tormund suddenly.

Jon turned to him and saw that he had a look of disbelieving wonderment on his face as he watched the dragons. They had been on Dragonstone for several days now and had seen the dragons on several occasions but they all still marvelled whenever they watched them in flight.

But this was something else entirely.

The three dragons were all soaring and diving among Euron’s forces, setting men and boats alight with what appeared to be little to no effort. They were clearly responsible for the majority of the losses that their enemy had suffered, as Jon had only seen a few longships being destroyed by Yara’s ships.

_They are incredibly powerful_ , thought Jon, as Rhaegal swooped over their heads to join his siblings in laying waste to the Iron Fleet. _With them on Daenerys’ side, I wouldn’t want to be Cersei._

As Jon continued to scan the battle, his eyes fell onto the large galley that he knew to be Euron Greyjoy’s command ship. He looked around the ship but couldn’t see any other ship close to it, so it would appear that Davos hadn’t yet gotten close enough to complete his mission.

Either that or…

Jon shook his head firmly, dismissing the idea before it fully formed in his mind, knowing that Davos’ skill would get him out alive.

“Let’s go, Tormund,” Jon said as he turned his back to the battle and started sprinting to the east coast of the island.

Even from this distance, there was a dim glow from the eastern coast of Dragonstone, heralding the fight that Grey Worm, Barbarro and their forces would be fighting against the Ironborn invaders. Jon, Tormund and Ghost raced over the uneven ground, with Jon and Tormund nearly losing their footing on several occasions. Ghost, however, sprinted over the dark ground, seemingly never doubting the sureness of his footing.

As they carried on running towards their destination, they moved through what was clearly part of the Dothraki encampment which they had set up on the high ground that ran along the beach. There were countless torches still burning in the Dothraki’s haste to join the battle, lining the paths between their tents that surrounded them on all sides, varying in size and shape, and often there were people poking their heads out of the flaps, usually women or children. As they ran past, Jon heard a few screams from them, which he was sure was due to Ghost.

Before long the camp began to thin out, with the countless tents being replaced by several large penned areas in which there were still dozens of horses, who were nervously stamping their hooves at the sounds of battle. As Ghost ran past the horses began bucking wildly and trying to bolt.

As they left the camp, the ran for another thirty feet before they reached the crest of the hill and looked down at the battle that was raging. There were around a dozen mounted Dothraki left, riding around the battle swinging their _arakhs_ this way and that, with heads flying from their Ironborn enemies. However, Jon could see that they were being targeted by the Ironborn, who were desperately trying to remove the Dothraki’s advantage. As Jon watched, two of them were brought down, with the horses whinnying pitifully as they died. Jon could also see the Unsullied forces on the beach below, as they moved in their regimented formations, almost moving as a single person, with their moves so in time with the others.

Jon was confused as to why the Unsullied would give up the tactical advantage of the hill, in favour of a melee on the beach. However, as Jon’s eyes scanned the corpses that littered the battlefield and saw that they were primarily made up of Dothraki it became a little clearer to him.

Jon guessed that the Dothraki had charged down the hill, both mounted and on foot, as soon as the Ironborn had landed and Grey Worm had sacrificed the advantage that they held in an effort to support them and to minimise the losses that they suffered, as they would be vastly outnumbered in this battle if these Dothraki fell. Not least of which was Barbarro who was a vital member of Daenerys’ Dothraki forces, as well as a competent fighter, if the stories that Tyrion had told him was true.

As Jon unsheathed Longclaw, and discarded his sword-belt, he looked down at Ghost, who was looking up at him with his blood-red eyes.

“Go on, boy” Jon said, with a small smirk. “Go get them.”

With a low growl, Ghost bounded down the hill towards a sole Unsullied who had lost his helmet and was fighting two Ironborn. Ghost sprinted towards them, with one of the enemies noticing him as he ran and a look of terror covering his face, and leapt over the Unsullied and grasped one of the attackers by the throat. His momentum carried them both to the ground, where Ghost ripped out the man’s throat. The Unsullied, taking advantage of the confusion, killed the remaining enemy by thrusting his spear through the man’s chest. After withdrawing the spear the Unsullied turned to Jon, who saw that it was Grey Worm, who nodded gratefully to Jon before re-entering the battle.

As Jon raced down the hill after Tormund, his eyes were drawn to the sea and saw that the three longships had been joined by a Lannister galley.

_Shit!_ Jon thought, knowing that this meant that ballistae and catapults would soon be joining the battle.

As Jon ran forward an Ironborn broke away from the battle and charged at him. The man was wielding an axe in each hand, the sight of which gave Jon more confidence that it should have done. He had fought against several Wildlings who fought in a similar style and knew that the best way to beat them was to remove one of their weapons.

The man swung his axe towards Jon’s face, who raised Longclaw to parry the blow, the man’s blood covered axe stopping inches from Jon’s face. Jon pushed the man hard in the chest before he could attack with his second weapon, causing him to stagger back a pace, before ducking under the Ironborn’s wild swing and slicing upwards with Longclaw, severing the man’s hand at the wrist. As the man staggered backwards, screaming loudly and clutching at the bloody stump of his arm, Jon stepped forward and thrust Longclaw through the man’s chest, putting him out of his misery.

Jon looked to his left and saw Tormund swinging his blade furiously, seemingly holding off three Ironborn at once. As Jon moved forward to help him, a movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. The Lannister galley had fired a volley from their catapults and several fiery projectiles were flying towards the beach…

One of which seemed to be heading straight for where they stood.

From his brief glance, it looked like it was going to land at their feet, but Jon wasn’t going to take any chances. Moving faster than he could ever remember, he bolted towards Tormund. As Jon raced towards him, Tormund slashed open the gut of one of the Ironborn before slicing the throat of another. As he reached Tormund, Jon slashed across the remaining Ironborn’s face, vaguely seeing the blood spray out from the wound, while at the same time grabbing hold of the scruff of Tormund’s neck and forcing him to the ground.

“Tormund! Get down!” he roared, as they landed in the blood-soaked sand.

As soon as they hit the ground, Jon felt the fiery ball fly over their heads, with a brief wave of heat accompanying it. It landed around thirty feet behind them, half way up the hill. Jon felt several burning spots on the back of his neck and reached up to rub away the remnants, as he could tell that he had been hit by some tiny fragments from the explosion that was burning his flesh.

Jon raised his head slightly and saw that several people had been caught by various other explosions. As Jon furiously wiped his face free of the blood-clogged sand he vaguely saw a Dothraki stagger across his vision, flailing his arms desperately and screaming loudly as he burned.

Jon felt Tormund rise up next to him and was about to do the same, when a boot slammed into the small of his back, knocking the wind out of him and pinning him to the floor.

“Where the fuck are you going?” rasped a cruel, excited voice.

Jon looked and saw the man’s other leg standing next to him and lashed out with his elbow, trying to knock it out from under him. He was unsuccessful as the man simply shifted himself, while laughing mockingly and delivering a crushing kick to Jon’s ribs.

However, the pressure was released almost immediately and Jon was hauled up out of the sand and turned to see Tormund standing over the body of the Ironborn, now without his head.

“Now we are even, Jon Snow,” Tormund growled, before he ran off into the melee.

Jon turned and made his way into the throng of people, slashing this way and that as Ironborn emerged from the writhing mass of people to attack him. One such Ironborn lunged at him with his sword swinging down, which Jon parried with Longclaw while at the same time grabbing the man’s sword arm, hoping to give it a vicious twist to make him drop his weapon.

However, out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw someone else run towards him, axe raised. Changing his plan quickly, Jon grabbed hold of the front of the man’s shirt and moved him into the path of the axe like a shield, which pierced into the man’s back with a dull thud. As Jon felt the man go limp, he let him drop to the floor and raised his blade and thrust it through the second man’s surprised face, straight through the bridge of the man’s nose and out of the back of his head.

Jon, breathing deeply, re-entered the battle. Ahead of him he saw an Unsullied warrior deftly fighting two Ironborn, simultaneously blocking one man’s blows with his shield while attacking the other with strong thrusts with his spear. Before long both men were dead and the Unsullied stood victorious, breathing heavily.

However, Jon’s respectful smirk was wiped from his face quickly enough.

There was a whistling sound and the man’s body was peppered with several spear-like objects, several more thudding into the ground around them. Three found their way into his chest while another pierced through the man’s right eye. Jon recoiled, breathing heavily in shock.

_Ballistae_ , he thought numbly.

Jon turned to look out at the Lannister galley and saw, to his horror, that it had been joined by a second. However, no troops seemed to be coming from either galley. Jon could only assume that any troops that they had been carrying had already been dropped off somewhere, likely the southern, and any that remained were operating the weaponry.

_Either way, we need to get off this beach, now,_ Jon thought firmly, as he pushed the guesses and assumptions from his head and forced himself on to find Grey Worm and Barbarro.

Jon forced himself on through the crowd, fighting of multiple enemies as they lunged out at him, as he looked frantically for any sight of Daenerys’ generals. As he moved he looked toward the hill they came from and saw that there were several burning areas from the catapults. However, they were never higher than halfway up the hill. As he noticed this, Jon’s plan formed even clearer in his mind.

_We need to retreat to the top of the hill, to higher ground, out of the range of the catapults,_ Jon thought, as he beheaded another Ironborn.

As he looked at the mass of people in front of him, looking for two faces in particular, he began to think it would be a hopeless task to find them among so many people. However, as he thought this, Jon noticed Grey Worm, bloodied but still very much alive and fighting. Jon sprinted towards him and cut off the legs of an Ironborn that was about to put his axe into Grey Worm’s back. As the now legless man fell screaming into the sand, Jon raised Longclaw and plunged it into the man’s chest, killing him instantly.

Jon withdrew Longclaw and reached out to grab hold of Grey Worm’s shoulder. The man spun around at the touch and was about to put his spear through Jon’s gut when he recognised him and relaxed slightly, lowering his weapon.

“Grey Worm,” rasped Jon hoarsely, his throat dry from exertion. “We need to retreat to the hill. Get out of range of the Lannister catapults.”

Grey Worm nodded his agreement and turned to his men, shouting his orders in Valyrian. The men passed the order down their line and began to move for the hill.

“Where’s Barbarro?” Jon demanded.

“I do not know,” the Unsullied replied, but he gestured towards an area of the beach where the Dothraki were still battling the Ironborn. “I last saw him over there.”

“Fuck!” Jon exclaimed, running his hands though his hair, which was slick with sweat and blood. “Go with your men. I will find him.”

Grey Worm nodded and raced off after his men as Jon made his way towards the Dothraki. As he ran another Ironborn ran towards him. Jon, his temper now beginning to rise slightly, ducked under the man’s rabid swing, while at the same time cutting open the man’s gut, before standing up and cutting open the man’s throat with another slash.

Jon entered the melee and was instantly crushed by thrashing bodies on all sides, with their allegiance unknown. Jon pushed his way through, at this point not really caring who he was shoving out of his way, as long as he found the person he sought. He looked around and saw Barbarro a little away from him, his _arakh_ moving so far that it was almost a blur.

As Jon moved towards him, a body lunged out of the thronging mass to his right, their weapon raised which Jon instinctively parried with Longclaw. However, he was surprised to see that it was not an Ironborn attacking him but a Dothraki, his eyes wide and bloodshot, his face covered in blood and gore.

“I am not your enemy!” Jon roared in his face.

The man responded with a sentence in a harsh tongue that Jon assumed was Dothraki and guessed that he didn’t speak the Common Tongue. Knowing that that he was running short on time and that the man wouldn’t understand his argument anyway, through lack of knowledge of Common Tongue and his raging blood lust, Jon stepped forward and headbutted the man with everything he had. The man reeled backwards and Jon gave him a sharp shove back into the battle. Jon vaguely saw, as he moved on, the man regain his senses a little and step forward to cut off the forearm of an unsuspecting Ironborn.

Focusing himself once more, Jon ran over to Barbarro and grabbed hold of the man’s sword arm. He turned to him breathing heavily and his eyes wide.

“Barbarro, we need to retreat to the hill.”

“No!” the man roared, spit flying from his mouth. “We fight here!”

“If you stay here, you will all die!”

As if to prove his point, a flaming ball from a catapult landing in the midst of the crowd behind them, the force of which forced several people into Jon and Barbarro, knocking them to the ground. Jon’s head thudded into the ground hard, leaving him disorientated for a moment before he regained his senses.

Growling slightly, Jon grabbed Barbarro and pulled the man roughly to his feet, trying to block out the desperate screams of the burning men behind and the acrid smell of their melting flesh.

“Get your men to the top of the hill or they will all die!” Jon shouted, as he released the man.

Jon turned and sprinted for the hill, vaguely hearing Barbarro barking orders to the remaining Dothraki. As Jon ran on, he was aware that many of them had begun to follow him.

_Good!_ Jon thought scathingly. _The man has finally seen some sense._

“Ghost!” Jon called, seeing the white form of his wolf as he rose from slaying another foe. “To me!”

Ghost raced over to join him as they reached the top of the hill and re-joined the Unsullied, at the front of whom was Grey Worm and, to Jon’s joy, Tormund. Tormund broke into a wide smile at the sight of him, and walked over to clap him on the back.

“I knew you wouldn’t fall, Jon Snow,” he said, laughing. “You are too stubborn to die again.”

“The fight is not yet over Tormund,” replied Jon, as turned back to face the battlefield.

The Ironborn were taking this brief reprieve to regroup and prepare to follow them to take the hill. Jon turned to see that while there weren’t very many Dothraki remaining, all looking bloody and disgruntled that they had been pulled from the battlefield, he could see that there were at least double that number of Unsullied soldiers remaining.

_Their superior fighting skills are certainly aiding them here_ , Jon thought, as he looked at the many blood-coated spears in their hands.

And an idea struck him.

“Grey Worm!” Jon called, as he turned to the man. “Have your men form a defensive line along the crest of the hill. Do not let anyone break the line.”

Grey Worm nodded and relayed Jon’s orders. The Unsullied quickly moved into place, standing shoulder to shoulder, forming a wall of shields and spears that the Ironborn would have to breach. Behind the first line stood a second one, with these men each separated by around ten paces, ready to deal with any unfortunate enemy who breached the line.

“Grey Worm. Send more of your men around the top of the hill to act as scouts. The high ground will not help us much if we are outflanked.”

As Grey Worm quickly barked out the orders, Jon looked out towards the main battle. From the hill, they could just see a portion of the fierce battle that raged on the southern coast of the island. Multiple longships had made it to the shore here, which was ablaze in many places. The Lannister catapults were clearly giving them an advantage.

However, Jon could also see that the Iron Fleet has taken losses, with the dark shadows of the dragons still swooping in around them. Jon could see that they were acting a little warier now, not diving down as close, and he couldn’t help but wonder if one of the ballistae had found its mark.

The whinnying of horses brought Jon’s attention back to the situation in hand. Cursing himself for getting distracted, Jon looked over to see the horses that he and Tormund had passed by earlier and a memory flashed across his mind. A conversation he had had the previous evening while drinking with Tyrion.

_“Ah yes! The Dothraki,”_ he had slurred, as he drained yet another goblet. _“They are formidable to any army while on horseback. However, without them they are at a disadvantage, particularly to armoured knights.”_

Jon jolted slightly, a smile spreading across his face, glad that his drinking with Tyrion might save them now.

“Barbarro!” Jon roared, as he marched over to him. “Get those horses calmed and your men mounted on them. When the opportunity comes, they will charge down the hill and catch our enemy unawares.”

As he listened, Barbarro’s expression change from anger that Jon was giving him orders to almost excitement when he understood what Jon was proposing. Without wasting another moment, he turned to his men and barked out the orders in Dothraki. As they moved towards the horses, Jon turned back to the Unsullied defensive line, which was already repelling the first wave of Ironborn attackers.

Jon sprinted over and joined Tormund in the second line of defence, anxiously waiting for any of them to breach the line. The Unsullied in front of him began struggling to hold back two of them at once so Jon gasped hold of the man’s shoulder to brace him, reached over and stabbed Longclaw through one of the Ironborn’s heads. The other fell just as quickly, with a spear in his gut.

“We can do this all night, Jon!” shouted Tormund, as he too killed another enemy. “But it won’t mean much if those ships are still there.”

“I know!” replied Jon, as he helped to brace the front line against another push from the Ironborn. “But there isn’t much we can do about it right now!”

This continued for around half an hour, with Jon and Tormund each killing another half dozen Ironborn who managed to find a small breach in the Unsullied wall, who were beginning to suffer from fatigue from fighting for so long, and the remaining on foot Dothraki repelling a few feeble attempted flanking manoeuvres from the dwindling Ironborn forces. Jon too could feel the sudden tiredness beginning to creep into him. While it seemed like next to no time had passed since he had left the keep, he was well aware that he had probably been running and fighting for a couple of hours at this point.

Jon gritted his teeth and determinedly pushed his exhaustion away, adamant that he would continue to fight until the life left his body for the second time.

As Jon thrust Longclaw through yet another foe, a dragon’s screech filled the air, drawing every eye to it. Jon looked up to see the black shadow fly over them as it headed towards the twin Lannister galleys that was piling the pressure on them. As it flew over their heads, the glow from the torches illuminated the dragon’s dark green scales.

“ _Rhaegal!”_ Jon breathed in amazement, grinning despite his tiredness.

All eyes, even those of the Ironborn, turned to watch as Rhaegal dived down on the Lannister galleys, unleashing a vast plume of flame that set one of their sails alight at once. He quickly went to work on burning them both to cinders.

Seizing control of the distraction, and all traces of his tiredness pushed away, Jon turned and caught Grey Worm’s eye and nodded to him.

“Unsullied!” Jon shouted, maintaining eye contact with Grey Worm, who translated his words in Valyrian. “Move away!”

As soon as the command was given, the Unsullied wall split into two, moving away to leave enough from for four horses abreast. The Ironborn attackers, whose attention had been fixed on Rhaegal’s torching of their ships, turned at the move and stood staring dumbly in shock.

“Barbarro!” Jon roared, as he turned to the Dothraki riders. “Charge now!”

With a great thundering of hooves, and screaming of the riders, Barbarro led his men straight at the attackers. The sudden cavalry charge caught the Ironborn by surprise, with dozens falling immediately. Several horses stumbled on the way down the hill and fell, crushing several more attackers.

“Reform the wall!” Jon shouted.

As the Unsullied moved back into position, Jon looked down the hill and felt a relieved laugh fall from him. The Dothraki charge had been devastating to the remaining Ironborn attackers. Over half had been killed in the initial charge, either by blades or trampling from the horses’ hooves. The remaining were desperately trying to put up a fight against the mounted Dothraki, despite being at a disadvantage.

Hearing another loud screech from Rhaegal, Jon looked up to see him flying off to re-join the main battle, leaving several burning wreckages in the water in front of them. As he muttered almost silent thanks to the dragon, Jon felt an urgent hand clamp onto his shoulder.

“Snow!” said Grey Worm. “Look!”

Jon turned, following the man’s gesture and saw a small group of men, around twenty or so, that had broken from the battle on the southern coast and were racing towards the keep. Even from this distance, they were clearly not Unsullied or Dothraki.

“Shit!” exclaimed Jon.

Suddenly, a one of the Unsullied scouts shouted to them and they turned to see a contingent of men heading towards them, clearly trying to reinforce their men, not knowing that many of them had already fallen. Jon stood aghast, wondering how things could have gone from bad to worse so quickly.

“Snow!”, Grey Worm said, as he grasped his arm again. “I will take command and hold off these men. You go help Queen Daenerys.”

“What!” Jon exclaimed as he turned back to the man. “You are not going?”

As reply, Grey Worm looked down to his side. Jon followed his gaze and saw for the first time that the man was bleeding from a wound to his left side. It didn’t seem life threatening but it was hard to tell in the lack of light.

“I will not be fast enough,” he said simply. “You go. Help the men guarding Queen Daenerys’ room to protect her.

“And Missandei,” he continued, and as he said her name, his voice quivered for the first time and an almost pleading look entered his eyes.

Jon, seeing the man’s concern, nodded grimly and turned to Ghost. His wolf’s white fur was matted with blood, although thankfully none of it seemed to be his own.

“Ghost!” Jon called, causing the wolf to run to his side. “Stay with Grey Worm. Keep him safe.”

Immediately, the direwolf moved to Grey Worm’s side and sat down on his haunches. The Unsullied turned to Jon and nodded gratefully, extending his arm to Jon. Jon grasped the man’s forearm, the two men sharing a grim nod, both determined to see this through to the end.

“Tormund, with me!” Jon shouted as he raced through the camp towards the keep.

As Tormund caught up with him and the two of them sprinted across the dark ground, all traces of tiredness gone from them both, they saw that the men had already reached the keep and had disappeared inside.

_I hope we are not too late_ , Jon prayed as they ran on.


	14. Tyrion II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the responses to the last chapter. You guys are awesome!   
> I was a little nervous about it, as it was my first battle-heavy chapter, but it is great that you enjoyed it so much.  
> I hope you enjoy this chapter as well, please let me know in the comments.  
> Next up will be a Dany chapter, with the ending and immediate aftermath of the battle.

 

Tyrion

 

“Don’t die,” Daenerys said softly, to Jon and Tormund. “Either of you.”

Tyrion turned to Dany, surprised by her soft voice and the concern that was clear in her tone. While he hadn’t known her for but a few months, Tyrion knew that Dany was by no means a cold woman, completely devoid of concern for those who served under her or who she worked with, but she was also not one to outwardly show such concern, or in such a way, so soon after meeting someone.

 _Jon Snow_ , thought Tyrion with a wry smirk. _You have definitely changed a few things already._

Tyrion was so absorbed by his confused thoughts that he didn’t notice Jon and Tormund leave. When he did, Tyrion felt a little guilty that he hadn’t wished his friend good fortune in the undoubtedly tough fight that he was going to join. However, this feeling soon left, being extinguished by a small rush of pride for his friend.

 _From what we have heard of Jon, he won’t need luck_ , thought Tyrion, as he turned back to the balcony.

Tyrion walked over to the balcony railing and looked out over the chaos in front of them. Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion were flying all over the Iron Fleet, raining fire down from above. Sails and masts caught alight, leaving the troops at the mercy of the choppy waves on their way to shore in their small landing ships.

And those were the lucky ones. 

Even from so far away, the screams of the burning Ironborn found their way into their ears. While Tyrion had no sympathy in their choice of leader, with nether Euron Greyjoy nor Cersei being a sovereign to boast about, he did feel sympathy for them to die in such agony.

Tyrion looked into the mass of enemy ships, and saw the golden Lannister lion sigil emblazoned on their scarlet sails. He felt a rush of bile in his throat as he thought of his sister sitting on the Iron Throne, especially after the way she had ascended to the throne by killing two members of her own family herself and indirectly killing Tommen.

For a long time, the sight of the Lannister lion had made him proud, proud to be a member of such a wealthy and prominent noble family. However, as time had passed and many more incidents began to plague him and their family as a whole, his pride at being a Lannister had begun to wane. Both Cersei and Tywin had hated him from birth, and he them in return, so he had long been used to their scorn and contempt but the aftermath of Joffrey’s death had been different. They had both been willing to see him dead despite his innocence, regardless of his father’s weak attempts to persuade him of the contrary.

But now the anger and hatred that he felt meant that now the sight of the Lannister lion only made his fingers itch, desperate to be placed around Cersei’s throat, and made him wish that the Lannister name could fade into nothing, forgotten to history.

Until he thought of Jaime.

Jaime, along with a few of his now dead uncles, had been one of the few members of the Lannister family that didn’t treat him like a stunted and malformed beast, but like his little brother. Tyrion thought back to the last time had seen his brother, in the cells of King’s Landing. Jaime had risked a great deal to see him freed from his cell although Tyrion knew in his heart that Jaime’s life had not been in danger.

 _No, Father would never let anything happen to Jaime_ , thought Tyrion harshly, as he watched a Lannister galley sink with a sense of satisfaction. _He had to continue his legacy._

Struck by a sudden thought, Tyrion wondered if Jaime was leading the Lannister forces. While he couldn’t see why he would be, as Jaime was a soldier and not a sailor, the increasingly worrying news from the capital was making him concerned. The news from Varys little birds was that Cersei was growing increasingly more paranoid and only held Jaime and the new Grand Maester Qyburn to confidence. This made Tyrion wonder if she had made Jaime lead the attack himself, as her trust was very unlikely to extend to Euron Greyjoy.

 _He may be an ally to her now,_ Tyrion thought. _But she isn’t always known for trusting or helping her allies. The collapse of the Lannister-Tyrell alliance is proof of that._

 _I hope you are not here, brother,_ Tyrion thought, as he looked out towards the mass of ships. _I do not wish to see you fall._

Tyrion looked down to the amassing force on the southern shore. The Unsullied were forming into tight formation, no doubt spurred on by their acting commander, Black Rat, under the orders of Randyll Tarly. While growing up, Tyrion had heard stories about how his command in the Battle of Ashford had given Robert Baratheon his only loss in the Rebellion, even though many people say that the result was indecisive. Even so, his skill as a commander was renown and Tyrion felt more comfortable with him commanding the beach.

However, as Tyrion looked to his left and saw the mass of Dothraki forces that were waiting for the enemy, in no particular formation or with any discipline, a wave of worry went through him. Losing Barbarro was a huge blow, regardless of whatever comforting words that Tyrion had said to Dany. Without his leadership and ability to communicate with the other generals, the Dothraki were likely to do as they pleased in the battle, which will impede whatever strategy Tarly uses.

 _Barbarro, you bloodthirsty fool,_ thought Tyrion angrily, as he turned to look as the eastern shore.

From so far away, the battle on the eastern shore wasn’t very visible, partly due to the vast Dothraki encampment. All that could be seen is the glow from various fires that had been caused by the catapults of the Lannister galley that had joined the various longships. The sight of the Lannister ship, with its weaponry, made Tyrion feel a little worried for his friend. Jon might be very skilled with a sword, but that wouldn’t help much against catapults and ballistae.

As Tyrion turned back to the main force, he saw Dany too looking towards the eastern shore with a concerned look on her face, causing Tyrion to smirk slightly. Catching the look on his face, Dany looked down to the amassing force on the beach and removed the concerned look from her face. Tyrion continued to smirk as he followed her gaze.

“Will Lord Randyll Tarly be able to hold the beach?” Dany asked, and Tyrion could tell that she was trying to divert any of his questions.

“Well, he is one of the best commanders in Westeros, and certainly the best on the island,” replied Tyrion. “If anyone here can, it is him.”

“What has he done to inspire such confidence in his abilities?” she inquired, raising an eyebrow towards them in curiosity.

“You remember how he told you that he fought on the side of your father in Robert’s Rebellion?” said Varys, moving forward slightly.

As Dany nodded, Tyrion thought back to when the man had arrived on Dragonstone, only accompanied by his heir Dickon Tarly and a few men carrying the red huntsman sigil of their house. When he had entered the throne room, and he and his companions had bent the knee, he had explained to Dany how that while many of the noble houses of Westeros had risen up against her father in rebellion, he had remained loyal, and would continue to be loyal to House Targaryen.

“He commanded the armies of the Tyrells at the Battle of Ashford,” said Tyrion calmly. “They attacked Robert’s army and overran them, causing Robert to retreat. While many say that the result of the battle was indecisive, the fact that he had caused the Baratheon forces to retreat, particularly after the Battles of Summerhall, it was seen as a victory.”

“What happened there?” asked Missandei quietly. Tyrion looked at her and could see that she was slightly scared and was using the conversation to distract her.

“Robert Baratheon called his banners in rebellion against the Throne, but several lords refused to join him. The lords of Houses Fell, Cafferen and Grandison planned to assemble at the ruins of Summerhall and attack Storm’s End.

“However, their plan was betrayed to Robert. He marched his army to Summerhall and arrived before them all. As each of the three armies arrived, Robert surprised them. He fought three battles, against three different armies, all on the same day and won them all, defeating Lord Fell in single combat in the process.

“After the battle, Lord Fell’s son Silveraxe, along with the lords of Cafferen and Grandison, were captured and taken to Storm’s End. After some time, they joined their Houses to Robert’s cause. No one knows how he managed to convince them to join him but is it still quite an impressive feat, I would say.”

Tyrion looked at Dany out of the corner of his eye and saw her looking ahead with a stony expression on her face. Even if she was impressed by this story of Robert Baratheon, Tyrion knew that she would not acknowledge it. While she had been shown that the Starks were not the power-hungry usurpers that she had always believed them to be, Robert Baratheon would always be the ‘Usurper’ to her, the man who had sent her and her brother into exile.

A horn broke the slightly uncomfortable silence, and everyone turned to look at the battle. A single Ironborn longship had broken through the defensive line and was racing towards the shore, despite being on fire in several places due to the flaming arrows that were being rained upon it from Dany’s fleet.

Tyrion looked down and saw a lone figure on horseback in front of the small contingent of Westerosi knights, and guessed that it was Randyll Tarly. As he watched, Tarly raised his hand and a small group of archers ran forward, clearly following orders. They positioned themselves to give them the best shot at the landing party.

After what seemed like an age, the ship landed on shore and the Ironborn aboard began to pour out onto the beach. The archers fired their first volley and dozens of the enemy fell, their companions tripping and stumbling over their falling bodies. The archers fired volley after volley, with more and more men falling under the hail of arrows being fired towards them. Around twenty men survived the storm of arrows and charged towards the Unsullied lines.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tyrion saw Randyll give another order and as one the Unsullied moved forward in rigid formation. Tyrion watched as the Unsullied made short work of the undisciplined Ironborn, bashing at them with their shields to knock them backwards before finishing them with strong spear thrusts into their chests. Before long the last Ironborn fell, and the Unsullied retreated back to their original position. The whole skirmish had lasted less than five minutes and Tyrion once more was thankful that the Ironborn had not landed nearer to the Dothraki, as it would have likely lasted a lot longer.

Over the next hour or so, several more longships managed to sneak through the defensive line and headed towards the coast. The majority, like the first, landed on the shore near the Unsullied and Westerosi forces, and were similarly dealt with as swiftly despite there being a few losses, mostly from the few Ironborn archers.

However, one landed on the Dothraki section of the beach. Once the Ironborn stormed onto the shore, the Dothraki charged at them, their horses galloping over the sand. However, a few Ironborn archers let loose their arrows at the front of the charging horde, causing a few horses to stumble and trip those behind them. Dozens of horses fell, ether killing or seriously injuring their riders, Tyrion guessed, before they managed to slow.

The Ironborn archers were quickly killed by their Dothraki counterparts, and the on foot Ironborn quickly followed, unable to deal with the Dothraki’s advantage of being on horseback. Tyrion looked at the mass of horse and human corpses on the beach and saw a few Dothraki milling around it looking for survivors. It wasn’t lost on Tyrion that there were already over twice the number of Dothraki casualties after one attack than the Unsullied had suffered after repelling nearly half a dozen assaults.

As Tyrion shook his head, cursing Barbarro’s stupidity once more, he looked back at the sea battle. The Tyrell and Martell war galleys had gone ahead of Yara’s ships and were utilising their huge metal rams on their front of their ships. As Tyrion watched, a Tyrell ship rammed into the side of a longship, the force of which snapped it in half, sending planks of wood and crewmembers in all directions. Tyrion scanned the battle and saw several ships from both sides falling under the barrage of catapult and ballistae fire.

But the dragons were what caught Tyrion’s attention the most.

Thinking back to how Dany and her dragons had broken the Second Siege of Meereen, Tyrion remembered how the dragons had set the deck of the ship aflame as soon as they could. However, now they were acting differently. Once more marvelling at the intelligence that dragons were capable of, Tyrion watched the three dragons use their new tactic.

On their first fly past, Rhaegal would set the sail and mast of the ship alight, leaving the ship stranded, while Drogon and Viserion would destroy the weaponry on the deck of the ship, removing a major threat to the trio. The three would then fly away but circle back to attack once more, this time setting the deck ablaze, forcing the men to either burn alive or leap into the sea.

Tyrion appreciative smile was wiped away when he watched them attempt to do the same to a Lannister galley. While Rhaegal and Drogon managed to escape unharmed, Viserion was hit with what appeared to be ballistae spears. Viserion rocked in the air as he flapped his left wing a little weakly, as it appeared to have taken the brunt of the attack.

“Viserion!” called Dany fearfully, clutching the railing so hard her fingers went white.

A roar from both of Viserion’s siblings echoed around, as they both dived towards the ship. They lit a circle of flame around the edge of the boat’s deck, trapping all the crew within it with no escape. They then set the whole deck aflame, burning the crew alive. Tyrion watched open-mouthed at the display of what appeared to be vengeance from the dragons.

 _Well,_ thought Tyrion, as he watched Rhaegal and Drogon fly over to help Viserion stay in the air. _If they are as smart as men, or even smarter, they will understand vengeance, if we do._

As they all watched, Viserion managed to right himself and began to fly a little stronger. While he was not a mobile as he had been before, it seemed like the wound from the ballistae hadn’t been as bad as first thought.

Tyrion let out a grateful sigh. He had become quite fond of the dragon, and was relieved that Viserion appeared mostly fine. Tyrion looked at Dany and saw that she was as relieved as he was and the two shared a weak smile.

The crash of wood broke caught their attention, so loud it seemed like a roll of thunder. They both snapped around to see that two Lannister galleys had smashed through the defensive line, with seven or eight Ironborn longships behind them, as they headed for the beach.

Tyrion watched on a little fearfully. The assembled forces on the beach had managed well against a few longships, especially as they came one at a time. With this many enemies storming the beach at once it would mean a full battle, which would show the chasm left without Barbarro’s command very clearly. Tyrion saw Tarly racing along the shore on his horse, accompanied by someone that Tyrion guessed was Black Rat to translate his orders, shouting his commands to the various Unsullied legions on the beach. As he rode past the assembled themselves into a wall, their shields raised to prepare for the enemy.

Tarly stopped by the Dothraki and was clearly shouting to them to form some kind of defensive line, but they could clearly not understand a word he said. Even if they did, Tyrion doubted that they would have obeyed his commands anyway. Tarly and Black Rat raced along the beach to get back to their command positions before the enemy landed.

Before the long the ships landed on the beach and hundreds of Ironborn swarmed out. However, this time Tyrion could see that they were accompanied by a few hundred fully armoured Lannister soldiers. They charged at the Unsullied lines, who managed to hold them off. The Lannister soldiers gave them more of a challenge but they too didn’t manage to breach the line.

However, while the Unsullied managed to hold off the attackers fairly well, the Dothraki were not having the same luck. While their high-risk, high-reward strategy of frequent cavalry charges was dealing heavy blows to the enemy, they too were losing a lot of men. The Dothraki who were fighting on foot were not having the same successes as those on horseback. While they managed to put up a decent fight against the Ironborn, with their negligible amounts of armour, they were finding themselves completely outmatched against the Lannister knights.

The battles raged on for a couple of hours, with the battles on sea and land being equally fierce. No one spoke as they watched dozens of ships being sunk, with both sides losing their share, as well as countless men on the beach falling in battle. The dragons were still diving around burning the enemy fleet, although they were all warier after Viserion’s injury. As Tyrion watched a Lannister galley sink, after being weakened by Viserion’s flame and then rammed by a Martell galley, Rhaegal broke off from the battle and flew over to the eastern shore.

Tyrion watched Rhaegal leave, completely bewildered, and shared a look with Dany, who was equally confused by Rhaegal’s actions. They all watched as Rhaegal swooped over to begin burning the ships that were attacking the eastern shore, which had now been joined by a second Lannister galley. Tyrion saw that the glow from the various fires had grown larger, meaning that there had been a lot of bombardment of the beach.

“I hope Grey Worm will be all right,” said Missandei quietly, who looked surprised that she had spoken aloud when everyone turned to her.

Dany leaned over and put a comforting arm around her friend.

“Grey Worm will be fine, Missandei,” she said soothingly.

“Quite right, my lady,” said Tyrion bracingly, giving her a warm smile. “Grey Worm is a very skilled fighter, and is accompanied by Jon, Tormund, Ghost and now Rhaegal. He will be fine.”

Missandei retuned his smile and looked comforted by their words. Tyrion turned once more to watch Rhaegal relieve the pressure on the eastern battle, and felt his smile fade.

Despite his words to Missandei, he too was a little worried about the outcome of the battle. While the two sides had roughly the same number of men, the Lannister galleys with their weaponry put their friends at a massive disadvantage and, while Rhaegal was now stripping away that advantage, the battle had been raging for a few hours now with an unknown number of casualties.

Tyrion felt Dany stand alongside him and turned to her, and saw the look of concern on her face once more.

“Do you think Grey Worm, Jon and the others will be all right” she asked quietly, clearly trying to damage Missandei’s spirts any further.

“Have you grown so attached to our Northern friend so quickly, Your Grace?” Tyrion jested half-heartedly, trying to ease the tension slightly.

Dany shook her head in exasperation at his ill-timed jest, before turning to him with a determined look on her face.

“We had just agreed to an alliance when Euron attacked,” she said quietly. “And his bannermen in the North do not know that, so I don’t think that they would honour the agreement we had made if Jon died fighting here, do you?

“No, Your Grace,” Tyrion said, shaking his head slightly. “I doubt they would.”

They continued to watch as Rhaegal set the ships aflame, trying desperately to get any little glimpse of the battle, despite the encampment frustratingly blocking their view. When Rhaegal had completely destroyed the enemy ships plaguing the eastern shore, he flew back to join his siblings in the main battle. Tyrion and Dany too turned their attention back to the vast battle that was unfolding beneath them, but Tyrion saw that Missandei continued to look towards the eastern battle, where Grey Worm was.

As they watched, the battle seemed to be tipping in their favour.

There were far more of Euron’s ships on fire and sinking than Yara’s, with the dragons clearly being an advantage despite their wariness of getting too close to the enemy ships after Viserion’s injury. Tyrion looked to Dany and saw that she was looking a little more pleased.

“The battle appears to be going our way,” she said warily, as though by saying the words the battle would suddenly shift against them.

“It would seem so, my Queen,” replied Pylos, causing Tyrion to jump slightly. The maester had spent much of the battle sitting at the Painted Table, writing various letters as a way to distract himself from the chaos outside.

As Tyrion watched another Lannister galley sink beneath the waves, he couldn’t help but agree. There were countless smoking wreckages where the Iron Fleet had been but far fewer on their side. Tyrion couldn’t stop a smirk from crossing his face.

At that moment, there was a shout from the hallway outside, followed by the clash of blades.

All eyes turned to the door, as the sound of fighting grew, with multiple voices hurling insults at the Unsullied and several others screaming in pain. After a moment, the sounds outside the door died away, with the last thing they heard being what sounded like a spear falling to the ground. Tyrion shared a worried look with Varys, neither knowing what to expect.

The doors opened and eight Ironborn walked in, all covered in blood and gore with wild looks in the eyes. They were all carrying either axes or swords, all dripping with the blood of the Unsullied guardsmen. Tyrion looked past them and saw multiple more Ironborn lying dead among the Unsullied.

 _They must have caught the Unsullied outside by surprise,_ thought Tyrion, as he turned to look at the survivors. _That is the only way these men could have survived. But they still took their own losses._

Tyrion looked at the faces of the Ironborn. The majority of them were bearded, which were all tangled with salt and blood, but there was not a face that didn’t have at least one scar. Tyrion saw several that have gashes across their forehead or cheeks from small blades.

But it was the scars that the man at the front of the group had that turned Tyrion’s stomach.

Someone had clearly put a blade into the man’s mouth and slit open his cheeks, all the way from the corners of his mouth to his ears, giving him a permanent, grotesque smile.

He was a tall man with long and tangled grey hair and beard, that was parted along his scars, and one of his eyes was milky white with another jagged scar running across it, while the other was small, beady and almost black. When the man smiled evilly at them, he displayed his rows of brown, decaying teeth, and stretched his scars even further, making him look even more menacing.

“So, you are the Dragon Queen?” he rasped, his voice so hoarse that it was hard to understand what he said. “You are just a beautiful as the tales say.”

He smiled even wider, as his men chuckled menacingly at his words. Tyrion saw Dany stiffen slightly at his words as she continued to stare defiantly at him, a look of rage on her face.

“And, so is your friend,” the man continued as he turned his beady gaze to Missandei and theatrically licked his lips. “We are going to have such fun with you two.”

The threatening tone of his voice conveyed his threat very clearly, so much so that Tyrion felt a chill go down his spine. Out of the corner of his eye, Tyrion saw Dany step protectively in front of Missandei, not lowering her defiant stare from the Ironborn, rage and revulsion etched onto her face.

Tyrion grasped at the handle of the small dagger that he had in his belt, unsure how much he could actually help but determined to try. Tyrion turned to Varys and Pylos and saw that both men looked quite scared, knowing that neither of them would be able to put up much of a fight against eight armed men.

Suddenly, Dany started laughing. Tyrion looked at her and didn’t detect a hint of mirth on her face. All he could see was anger and, bizarrely, relief.

“And I am going to enjoy watching you all die,” she said, continuing to smile a little.

There was a beat of silence before the Ironborn all began to laugh at her words. However, their amusement at her words didn’t diminish her confidence. If anything, Dany began to smile a little more broadly, except that now Missandei and Pylos also started to look relieved as they looked towards the doorway. Tyrion tried to follow their gaze but his view was obstructed by the group of Ironborn.

“Really?” the grey-haired man snarled, his scars stretching even further. “And how is that going to-”

At that moment, a sword burst through the back of the man’s head and out of his mouth, sending several of his teeth flying across the room, causing blood to dribble out of his mouth as the man died. The man fell forward as the sword was withdrawn and Tyrion saw that it had been Jon who had killed him.

Jon pressed his advantage and began to attack the Ironborn, quickly followed by Tormund. Tyrion backed away slightly with the others as he watched Jon and Tormund fight their enemies and found himself admiring the two men’s differing fighting styles.

Jon was more calculated and skilled in his fighting, parrying and countering at just the right moment, his skill no doubt honed during his years at Winterfell and the Wall. Whereas Tormund used his brute strength and power to deliver a flurry of rapid strikes that forced the enemy to back away and make a mistake that would prove fatal for them, as Tormund would then deliver the killing blow.

As Tyrion watched, the two men began to cut down the group of Ironborn, their skill clearly outmatching their foes. However, Tyrion was brought from his reverie when an Ironborn broke from the melee and ran towards them, his blood-soaked axe raised above his head as he yelled a war cry. Tyrion once more fumbled for the dagger at his belt as he heard a small scream come from Missandei.

Suddenly the man cried out as he fell to his knees, revealing Jon standing behind him. Tyrion quickly guessed that Jon must have slashed across the back of the man’s knees to force him down. Jon raised Longclaw above his head and brought it down onto the top of the man’s head, cleaving his skull into two, right down to the bridge of the man’s nose. Jon withdrew his blade, and the dead Ironborn slumped to the floor.

Jon stood looking at them, breathing heavily. His hair had come loose from its binding, blowing around his face. The whole left side of his face was covered by blood soaked sand, which had long since dried into a gritty, red paste. The rest of his face and his armour were covered in blood and gore, as well as it dripping from his blade.

Tyrion recognised the intense, focused look on his face. He had seen it during the Battle of Blackwater Bay, when the men around him had been so fixated on fighting that they didn’t really take in all that was happening around them, so focused were they on keeping themselves alive and making sure that their enemy was dead.

As Tyrion stood staring, he felt Dany take a step forward and turned to look at her. She was looking at Jon in amazement, with her relief at his survival clear to see. Tyrion saw Jon turn to look at her and his determined look softened slightly at the sight of her.

A cry from behind Jon caught everyone’s attention.

They all looked in time to see Tormund fall to the ground after receiving a slash to the face from the sole remaining Ironborn. The Wildling hit the ground heavily, his sword spinning away across the floor, leaving a stunned silence in its wake.

With a cry of rage, Jon raced across the room towards the offending Ironborn, who raised his blade in preparation. As Jon reached him, the man swung his blade towards Jon’s head, causing Jon to duck under the swing and slash open his gut. The Ironborn fell to his knees, his hand scrambling at his stomach, trying to keep his guts inside his body. Jon straightened up, took hold of Longclaw with both hands and, with a powerful swing, decapitated the man, sending his head rolling across the floor and under the Painted Table.

Tyrion watched helplessly as Jon dropped his blade with a clatter and turned to examine his friend. As Tyrion hurried forward, he heard Dany urging Pylos to tend to Tormund.

“Tormund?” Jon said loudly, as Tyrion stopped behind him. “Can you hear me?”

Tyrion looked over Jon’s shoulder and saw that the left side of the Wildling’s face was covered in blood, with a long, deep gash along the length of his face, his ear split in half. As Pylos approached, Tyrion grasped hold of Jon’s shoulder firmly.

“Let Pylos work, Jon,” Tyrion said. “Let him help.”

Jon stood up and grabbed his sword, moving away to allow Pylos to examine Tormund.

“I need my herbs and medicines from my quarters,” Pylos said, as he turned Tormund’s’ head slightly, examining the wound. “He should live but there will be heavy scarring to his face.”

“I will get your herbs,” said Missandei, as she hurried from the room.

Silence fell in the room, as Tyrion watched Jon stagger to the nearest chair and slump into it, moving like he hadn’t slept in a week.

“Well, Your Grace,” said Vary, as he looked over the dead Ironborn and laying eyes on the decapitated man who injured Tormund. “I can see why you have received your reputation as the best swordsman in the North.”

As Tyrion followed Varys’ gaze, he couldn’t help but agree. While Jon might not be as skilled as other fighters such as Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, or even his brother Jaime, when he still had his sword hand, he was still an extremely formidable swordsman.

“What happened, Jon?” Dany asked softly, as she moved to stand next to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, seemingly oblivious to the blood-soaked sand that covered him.

“We managed to hold the beach,” Jon replied, still breathing heavily. “But we suffered a lot of casualties, mostly the Dothraki.”

“Let me guess,” said Dany sharply, as she straightened up. “Barbarro?”

“When I arrived the Dothraki and Unsullied were in a melee with the Ironborn on the beach when they could have defended from the high ground of the hill,” said Jon. “From the little I know about Grey Worm, he doesn’t seem like the type of man to give up the tactical advantage simply to engage the enemy.”

Tyrion nodded, knowing that Jon’s words were likely true. While the Dothraki were formidable fighters, especially while on horseback, there were proving very ineffectual at following commands.

“Is Grey Worm alive?” asked Missandei from the doorway. Tyrion turned to see her standing there, carrying a small bundle of herbs and ointments, with a concerned look on her face.

“He is injured, but alive,” replied Jon, as he turned towards her with a sympathetic look on his face. “As we left a group of Ironborn broke off from the main battle to reinforce their allies facing us. Grey Worm stayed behind to hold the hill. He has Ghost with him, as well as Barbarro and the remaining forces. He will be fine, Missandei.”

She nodded slightly as she walked towards Pylos, still looking worried despite Jon’s words.

Tyrion watched as Pylos began cleaning and sealing the gaping wound to the side of Tormund’s face, with various foul smelling ointments and potions tainting the air.

Suddenly a horn grabbed everyone’s attention.

“Reinforcements!” came faint cry from below them.

Tyrion rushed to the balcony alongside Dany, Varys and Jon. They looked out towards the south, expecting more to be sailing this way, and saw no ships. Tyrion then instinctively looked towards Blackwater Bay, expecting more Lannister sails from King’s Landing, but there were none there either. Almost disbelieving, Tyrion turned his gaze east and saw around thirty ships heading towards the battle.

He shared a confused look with Jon before returning his attention to the approaching force. As they grew closer, it was clear to see that they were all flying the kraken sigil of House Greyjoy, which only confused Tyrion further.

 _Greyjoys? From the east?_ Tyrion thought as he watched the ships come closer. _Has Yara had some ships that she has not told us about? Or has Euron sent some his men on a very long detour to allow for this flanking manoeuvre._

“Drogon!” called Dany loudly, breaking Tyrion’s concentration.

Drogon was helping Rhaegal set a longship alight but, at Daenerys’ call, he turned and made his way towards her. Tyrion was constantly amazed at the bond that the two of them shared. Drogon couldn’t have heard Dany’s voice, due to the distance between them and the noise of the battle, but he had made his way towards her as if he had been standing next to her.

He came to a halt at the balcony and hovered next to them to allow Dany to climb onto his scaly and spiked back.

“Daenerys!” Jon called, as she prepared to leave. “Make sure that _you_ don’t die either.”

Tyrion looked towards Dany and was amused to see that her stony expression softened slightly at Jon’s words, before she and Drogon flew off to engage the Ironborn threat. They watched them go for a moment before Jon spoke.

“I’m going to help Grey Worm hold the beach,” he said as he turned to leave the room, bidding Pylos to take care of Tormund as he passed him.

“Jon!” called Tyrion, as Jon reached the door, causing him to turn back. “Be safe, my friend.”

Jon nodded back at him before departing. Tyrion turned his eyes back towards Drogon and his rider as they flew towards this new fleet of Greyjoys, causing Tyron to wonder.

_Who are they?_


	15. Daenerys III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go guys. The final part of the Battle of Dragonstone. I hope you enjoy it.  
> Let me know down in the comments.  
> Next up will be Jaime

 

Daenerys

 

Dany and Drogon flew towards the oncoming ships, the wind whipping around her, blowing her hair all around her face. Dany held on tightly with her knees, with Drogon’s armour-like scales unyielding against the pressure. Over the few times that Dany had ridden Drogon she had worked out the best place to sit while on his neck, so that she had good visibility but also avoided the various spikes that lined his back.

As Drogon dipped slightly, Dany redoubled her grip to stop her sliding down his scaly neck. Turning her head to either sides, Dany saw that Rhaegal and Viserion had joined them, falling behind them to follow their lead.

Dany looked down and saw thirty ships heading towards the battle. They were all longships and were flying the kraken sigil of House Greyjoy. At the head of this small fleet was another longship, larger than the others with a large ram on the front.

Suddenly Drogon stopped diving, coming to a halt in mid-air and began to hover, allowing Dany to get a better look at the oncoming ships, in particular its flagship. Dany could just about see the name emblazoned on the hull of the ship.

_Iron Victory._

Dany’s eyes found its way to the deck and saw all members of the crew looking up at her and she could see, even from the distance between them, that they were completely amazed by the sight of her dragons.

However, Dany’s attention was grabbed by one member of the crew.

In the middle of the deck stood a tall, powerful man in full plate armour, complete with a kraken shaped helm. As Dany watched, the man was shouting orders to the surrounding men, who all scurried around in their haste to obey him.

_He must be their commander_ , Dany observed, as she continued to stare at the man. _But who is he?_

As Dany watched the man turned to her. With the helm covering his face, Dany couldn’t determine his expression at the sight of the dragons. However, Dany could sense the confidence in the man’s stance, completely at ease on the deck of his ship despite the choppiness of the waves.

After looking at her for a moment, the man turned back and raised his arm, revealing a large axe in his hand, raising it towards Euron’s fleet, giving a clear signal to attack.

As Dany watched, the _Iron Victory_ turned towards the dwindling numbers of Euron Greyjoy’s fleet and moved towards them, their crews preparing for battle. Dany was completely amazed, not only by the sudden arrival of these ships, but also that they seemed to share their enemy.

Dany leaned down as close as she could to Drogon and called in Valyrian.

“ _Leave these be_ ,” she said, feeling Drogon react to her words as he twisted his neck towards her. “ _They appear to be our allies. Attack the other ships.”_

Drogon turned immediately at her words and began to fly towards the remaining number of Euron’s Ironborn ships. Dany clung onto Drogon’s back tightly as the wind continued to blow around her, chilling her skin.

Drogon dived towards one of the remaining longships and unleashed a vast plume of flame that destroyed several catapults. It also ignited the burning oil that was used to light the catapult projectiles, making the casket explode. A wave of heat washed over Dany as the flames took hold, the deck rapidly burning. Dany watched as the crew rapidly scuttled towards the sides of the ship, desperately trying to escape the spreading flames.

Dany looked down and saw that there was only one Lannister galley remaining, the rest either smouldering wrecks or in the process of sinking. Dany saw the men aboard turning their weaponry to aim them at the oncoming ships. Even though the identity of these new arrivals were still a mystery to her, Dany wasn’t going to turn away a potential ally.

“ _Destroy the weapons_ ,” Dany called, holding on tightly once more as Drogon swooped down to follow her command, quickly followed by his siblings.

As they dived, Dany saw that her dragons moved to follow the same strategy that she had seen from the keep, with Rhaegal destroying the mast while Drogon and Viserion had destroyed the weaponry. Seeing it from so far way had filled her with wonder and pride at the intelligence of her children, but seeing it so close made these emotions grow even further, making her smile despite her surroundings.

Dany was brought from her musings when she saw that one of the enemy ballistae hadn’t yet been fully turned and was aimed directly at Drogon, the men preparing to fire.

“ _Drogon! Move!”_ she yelled desperately.

Drogon rolled to his right, causing Dany to hold on even tighter as she slipped and slid on his scaly back, desperately trying to not fall. There was a whistling sound as the ballistae spears flew past them, barely missing Drogon’s wing. Dany was relieved that Drogon remained unhurt from the spears, as she had seen Viserion being injured by a similar weapon and, while he had quickly recovered, she had been petrified at the time that he had been seriously wounded.

However, as Drogon stopped rolling and began to hover in the air above the Lannister ship, there was the sound of a catapult firing and Dany raised her head just in time to see the flaming ball hit Rhaegal squarely in his belly, causing him to rock in the air.

“Rhaegal!” Dany called fearfully, praying that he was not badly hurt.

Her prayers seemed to be answered as, once Rhaegal righted himself, he didn’t seem to be too injured. Dany guessed that the armour-like scales that covered him had blunted the worst of the attack and she doubted that fire itself would harm her children. These comforting thoughts did nothing, however, to calm the raging anger that had brimmed up within her at the sight of Rhaegal being injured.

“ _Dracarys!_ ” Dany called as loudly as she could, making sure her voice carried to all three of her dragons.

It did.

All three dragons immediately expelled long jets of fire, engulfing everyone on board the ship. In a matter of second every person of board was writhing in agony, their screams of pain filling Dany’s ears.

Hearing these men burn to death cooled Dany’s fury, and replaced it with a sense of sickening worry as Jon Snow’s voice thundered through her mind.

_“Your father then claimed that the champion of House Targaryen was fire”_

_Is this what they sounded like_? Dany wondered, as she watched the Lannister men burn. _Rickard and Brandon Stark, when my father murdered them? Or any of my father’s victims._

While Dany knew at the back of mind that these men were her enemies and would gladly see her dead, that this was a battle and that people would undoubtedly die, that she was misreading her anger as a sign of madness, she couldn’t dispel the worry that swelled within her.

_Is this what my father felt when he did all those terrible things?_ Dany pondered, unable to stop herself. _Did he feel this rage at his enemies? Or did he do it for pleasure? Or simply because he could?_

Despite being adamant that she wouldn’t become like her father, Jon Snow’s tale had caused her to worry once more. Dany had heard many tales about the Targaryen madness, and had now learned that her father had suffered from it. Her whole life she had assumed that Viserys too had been mad, from his constant abuse of her as well as his incredibly short temper. After all, how many times had she ‘woken the dragon?’

But what if it wasn’t him that had inherited the trait from their father.

What if…

Dany shook her head firmly, desperately trying to not let her recurring worry take hold of her, now of all times.

_Stop, you need to stay focused,_ she thought, as returned her thoughts to the battle.

Dany looked down and saw that the kraken-helmed man had rammed the _Iron Victory_ into one of the largest remaining longships and was personally leading a boarding party. He was not hard to spot, not just because of the fact that he was the only man there wearing full plate armour, but also with the skill and ferocity of his fighting. Dany saw that he was armed with his axe in one hand with a large, round shield in the other, which too was emblazoned with the Greyjoy kraken.

As Dany watched, an Ironborn charged at him, swinging their axe down towards him. The man raised his shield to block the blow, while at the same time embedding his axe into his attacker’s knee. As the Ironborn screamed in pain, the kraken-helmed man withdrew his axe from his enemy’s knee, while at the same time bashing his foe in the face with the rim of his shield, causing him to reel backwards, before raising his axe once more and smashing it into the Ironborn’s face. Dany watched in shock at the ferocity of the man’s fighting as he turned, leaving his axe in the face of his first enemy, and grabbed another man by the throat before pushing him overboard.

Dany wrenched her eyes away from the battle, becoming very aware that Drogon was a very easy target while hanging in the air as he was.

“ _Let’s go, Drogon,”_ Dany said, leaning down to speak to him. “ _There!”_

Drogon turned and flew where she had directed him, towards three longships all huddled together. Viserion and Rhaegal suddenly flew out in front of them and began to attack the two ships at the front, that were clearly protecting the larger ship behind them. Dany was initially confused by Viserion and Rhaegal’s enthusiasm, especially as they both had been injured during this battle. However, as Dany grew closer she saw that there wasn’t any weaponry on these ships.

_They are just troop ships,_ Dany thought.

Drogon rose over the top of the masts of the ships and began to head towards the third ship. As he lowered himself and coiled his neck back, which Dany recognised as him preparing his flame, Dany saw the men throwing down their weapons and gesturing to her their surrender.

“ _Drogon! No!”_ Dany yelled, leaning forward and placing her hands flat on his neck. _“They have surrendered!”_

Dany watched as Drogon turned his head sharply to the right and sent his flame along the hull of the ship that Rhaegal was attacking. Dany swivelled around to look at the ships that were currently burning under the onslaught of Viserion and Rhaegal’s attacks and wondered, with a jolt of panic, if the men there had surrendered too. As Dany heard the men die, screaming in agony as they burned, she hoped not.

Dany turned back to the ship and saw that they were beginning to signal their surrender to all remaining ships, friend or foe. Dany looked around and saw that the remaining ships of Euron’s fleet were following their lead, laying down their arms and surrendering. A great cheer rose up from Dany’s fleet and the vast numbers of soldiers on the island beyond it, causing Dany to smile slightly, despite the carnage around her and the acrid smell of burning flesh filling her nose.

_They had won._

Dany directed Drogon to the nearest of Yara’s ships, hoping that the woman herself would be there, alive and unharmed. However, Yara was nowhere to be seen when Drogon came to a halt next to the ship.

After scanning the deck for Yara, Dany addressed the crew.

“Who is your captain?” she called, and after a moment saw an Ironborn step forward. “I want you to pass on my orders to the rest of the fleet.

“The remaining members of Euron’s fleet are to be imprisoned and their ships seized. They are _not_ to be harmed without my command.

“Then,” she continued, as she pointed to the _Iron Victory_ and its small fleet. “Find out who they are. They seem to be sided with us but we need to be sure. If they are, send their commander to me. If not, send a signal and I will send my dragons to deal with them.”

After the man nodded his understanding, Dany directed Drogon to land on the beach. As they grew closer, she could see the debris of battle. There were dozens of small fires burning on the brush that lined the edge of the beach, with countless corpses, both human and horse, lying in the now red sand. Dany saw hundreds of thin rivers of blood snaking their way through the sand, down the slight incline towards the waves, staining the water red.

Drogon landed with a dull thud, followed by two more from behind them. Dany slid from his back and stroked along his neck, causing him to turn his head towards her and fix her with a stare from his red eyes.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Dany said, as she smiled gratefully towards him.

Drogon gave a low growl in acknowledgement and lowered his head to allow Dany to pet his head, which she did. After a moment, Dany left Drogon to examine her other two, more injured, dragons.

Rhaegal seemed to be mostly fine. The blow from the catapult didn’t seem to leave any permanent damage but Dany was still a little worried about him.

Viserion, on the other hand, was another matter. As Dany grew closer, she could see that there were two holes in his wing, that were leaking blood onto the sand. As she reached to check on his wing, he pulled it way from her, hissing slightly. Dany looked at him and could tell it was more from the pain of it than anger at her.

“ _Don’t worry_ ,” Dany said soothingly, as she stroked his snout. “ _I will get a healer, to stop the pain._ ”

Viserion made a low noise in his throat, and rested his head on his front leg. Dany turned and saw an Unsullied making his way towards her.

“ _My Queen,_ ” he said in Valyrian, as he went down on one knee when he reached her. “ _Are you hurt?_ ”

“ _No, I am fine,_ ” Dany said dismissively, still worried about Viserion’s injury. “ _I need you to find a maester. My dragon is injured and needs help._ ”

The Unsullied nodded and raced off and Dany turned back to Viserion.

“Your Grace,” came a gruff voice from behind her.

Dany turned back and recognised Randyll Tarly. He stood in front of her, clearly looking exhausted from several long hours of fighting, while spattered in blood, sand and sweat.

“Lord Tarly,” replied Dany, bowing her head respectfully. “You did an impressive job in holding the beach from Euron’s forces.”

“Yes, my Queen,” he replied, his stony expression not softening in the slightest at the praise. “And it would have been easier if those Dothraki had followed my orders.”

“The majority of them do not speak the Common Tongue, my lord,” Dany responded, a little defensively. “Their commander, Barbarro, left them to aid Grey Worm with the attack at the eastern beach.”

“Fool!” the man growled lowly, casting a scathing look over to where the Dothraki were gathered, no doubt with their commander among them. “And from what I hear he merely impeded the beach’s defence. I hear that Grey Worm and the Northern king only just managed to hold it, with _their_ leadership.”

“I will be having words with Barbarro. Have no doubt about that, my lord.”

Before the lord could anything more than nod in response, a small team of healers, led by Pylos, bustled over to tend to Viserion. He was initially not trusting of them but he quickly allowed them to approach him when he realised what they were trying to do.

After cleaning the puncture wounds, they then stitched them shut and bandaged them, before promising that his wing _should_ heal quickly, with no loss in his flight or mobility in the air. However, they said that this is only what _should_ happen, as they have next to no experience in healing dragons.

As Pylos left, muttering something about checking on Tormund, Dany turned back to Viserion and saw that he had settled himself down on the sand next to Drogon, both of them clearly tired from all their actions during the battle.

Dany turned towards Rhaegal just in time to see him raise himself up from the sand and begin walking towards an oncoming group. Dany followed his path and saw, with a smile, that Jon was at the front of the group, alongside Tyrion, Varys and Missandei.

Rhaegal reached Jon not too far from where Dany stood, so she could hear the greeting that the Northern king gave her dragon, patting his snout with a wide smile on his face. Jon turned to Dany and his smile grew slightly, causing Dany to feel a wave of relief, that she didn’t really understand, that Jon had once more survived the battle but also that he didn’t seem to be very injured.

Dany thought back to when Jon had come to their rescue in the keep and remembering the similar feeling of relief that she had felt when she had seen him, at both his survival and his timely arrival, and how he and Tormund had raced into the room and had dispatched the remaining Ironborn. Dany had marvelled at Jon’s skill while fighting, as he had personally killed over half of the men in the room.

Dany felt a great rush of gratitude towards Jon, not only for saving her and her friends from the Ironborn, but also for his bravery and loyalty, that he would be so willing to take up arms to fight alongside her so soon after meeting her, when, as a king, he didn’t really have a need to. He could simply have ordered his men to fight in his place and stayed where it was safe.

But he had not.

“Queen Daenerys,” Jon said as he reached her, bowing his head respectfully.

“King Jon,” Dany replied, fully aware that this was the first time that she had called him that, and one of the few times where she had acknowledged him as a King.

_After what he did today,_ Dany thought, as she smirked slightly at Jon’s bemused reaction to her words. _He deserves to be seen as such._

“How is Grey Worm?” Dany asked, looking between Jon and Missandei. “Are his injuries serious?”

“Not too bad,” Jon replied, looking towards Missandei. “Maester Pylos says that he will be fine after a few days’ rest. He lost a lot of blood, but should be fine.”

Dany shared a look with Missandei, who was looking happier than she had in days. Dany knew that Grey Worm and Missandei meant a great deal to each other, and so was glad that her two friends were both safe after the battle.

“And how is Tormund?” Dany asked kindly, meeting Jon’s eye.

“He should be fine too,” replied Jon, his face becoming grave. “However, he took a bad hit. He is lucky that he didn’t lose his ear, and will only have a scar to show for it.”

“I’m glad,” Dany said softly, smiling at Jon, who returned the gesture.

“So, you are the King in the North?” Randyll Tarly asked gruffly, as he took a step forward and looked Jon up and down, clearly appraising him. “I only met your father a few times, but even I can see you look a lot like him.”

Jon nodded slightly in gratitude but, as he looked at the sigil on the front of Tarly’s armour and seemingly recognised the red huntsman of House Tarly, his face become a stony mask of distaste and anger. Dany became slightly worried, remembering how Tyrion had warned her that there could be some bad blood between the two of them, for reasons unknown to Tyrion.

“I hear that you helped Grey Worm hold the eastern beach, despite that Dothraki general’s best efforts in preventing a good defence,” the man continued, now nodding slightly in appreciation. “The beach might have been lost if it wasn’t for your and Grey Worm’s leadership. An impressive feat, my lord.”

At this Randyll Tarly extended his hand to Jon for him to shake, but Jon looked at it as though Tarly was presenting him with a dead animal. After a tense moment, in which Dany shared a concerned look with Tyrion, who was watching Jon’s actions with apprehension, Jon reached out and shook Tarly’s hand, in what seemed to be an unnecessarily tight grip.

“Thank you, Lord Tarly,” said Jon, his voice quivering slightly in suppressed anger. “It is a shame that you couldn’t find reason to praise your eldest son in such high esteem.”

Tarly jolted in surprise at Jon’s words, staring at him as though he couldn’t believe his ears, before his face contorted in anger. Dany watched as Tarly too tightened his grip on Jon’s hand.

“And how do you know what I might have said to my son?” Tarly snarled.

“Because he is my friend!” Jon growled, leaning forward slightly, not trying to mask his fury now. “If it wasn’t for Sam, I wouldn’t be here.”

There was a collective murmur of surprise and interest at Jon’s words, but he didn’t seem to register it. His gaze was firmly locked onto Randyll Tarly, who was matching his furious glare with one of his own.

“When my brother Robb called the banners and marched to war, I attempted to desert the Night’s Watch, to avenge my father’s death. Sam was one of my brothers who went after me, in the dead of night, and brought me back. If he hadn’t, I would have been executed as a deserter. Sam showed a tremendous amount of courage and honour that night. A trait he clearly hasn’t picked up from his father.

“Sam told me,” Jon continued, raising his voice over Tarly’s attempted interruption, “about how you made him join the Night’s Watch. You threatened to kill him if he didn’t, and tell everyone that it was hunting accident.”

Dany’s eyes widened in shock, a feeling that was clearly shared by Tyrion and Missandei, who both made noises of indignation and shock. Dany looked at Tarly, who hadn’t lowered his furious stare from Jon, looking defiant.

“My son,” the man snarled, leaning towards Jon slightly, who, Dany was impressed to see, didn’t back down from Tarly, “is a weak, pathetic, wildling-fucking coward, who doesn’t deserve to be at the heir to my House.”

“No,” Jon countered, continuing to hold his ground. “Sam might not be the greatest warrior, or even very brave most of the time, but he is a better man than you could ever hope to be.”

At Jon’s words, Tarly’s face contorted with rage once more, and Dany stepped forward to try to defuse the tension, before it escalated too far.

“Jon,” Dany said firmly, as she placed a hand on his arm. “We have just won a battle against our enemies, let’s not start a fight with our allies so soon after.”

Jon turned towards her and met her eyes with his own, and she saw his anger slowly disappear. He nodded and relinquished his tight grip on Randyll Tarly’s hand, before turning around to join Tyrion and the others.

“Lord Tarly,” Dany said sternly, any trace of the warmth she had shown Jon now gone from her voice. If what Jon had said was true, then Dany was disgusted that this man would consider hurting, or even killing, his son because he was disappointed in him. “I would like you to check on the casualties. Find out the number of our losses.”

Tarly nodded at her words and, after throwing another scornful look towards Jon, turned and began to walk away.

“Lord Tarly!” came Jon’s voice from behind Dany, causing her heart to sink. However, when she turned around, Dany saw that Jon hadn’t moved, and he didn’t appear to be angry again. “Did Sam and Gilly tell you how he killed a White Walker?”

“Yes,” the man replied, not even bothering to turn around. “I suppose it was that Wildling whore who told him to tell such ridiculous lies.”

To Dany’s surprise, Jon didn’t grow angry at Tarly’s words. In fact, he smirked slightly.

“It is not a lie,” he said, causing Tarly to snap his head around, looking shocked. “He did.”

Tarly’s angry look faded at this declaration, to be replaced by one of shock, as he stared at Jon for a moment, looking for any sign of deceit. After a moment, the man snorted disbelievingly and left, although Dany could see a little hesitancy on his face, as though he was not entirely convinced that Jon was lying.

“Well,” said Tyrion slowly, breaking the awkward silence that had fallen between them. “Apart from Lord Tarly’s pride, it would appear that we have all made it through this unscathed.

“Some more than others,” came a scornful voice from behind them.

Dany turned to see Yara walking towards them, and felt a surge of happiness at her survival. Yara was blood spattered and soaked through, her wet hair clinging to her face. Dany saw a large gash in her left cheek and another, smaller one above her right eye, but other than that she appeared to be unharmed.

However, Dany’s happiness disappeared when she saw the look of anguish on her friend’s face. Surprised at it, Dany looked past her to see four more Ironborn behind her, carrying what seemed to be a large piece of a ship’s hull between them. As they came closer, Dany let out a shocked gasp when she saw what was on it.

Theon.

When they placed him down, Dany saw that the man had a large gaping wound in his chest. His eyes were still wide open and had a glassy look to them. Dany turned to Yara and saw that she was looking down at her brother, clearly trying desperately to not break down. Dany went over to her and placed a comforting arm around her.

“He died for me,” Yara croaked, her emotion nearly overflowing. “I wasn’t paying attention to behind me. He jumped in the way of an axe that was meant for me.”

Yara pursed her lips together, trying to stop a sob from escaping. Dany held on tighter with her arm, and gave her a reassuringly squeeze. Yara stood there for a moment, choking back her grief, and Dany looked around at those assembled around Theon’s body. They were all looking at Yara with sympathy and pity on their faces, even Jon, whose hatred of the Greyjoys, and Theon in particular, was well known. After a moment, Yara raised her head and looked at Dany, with anger burning in her tear-filled eyes.

“Where is Euron?” she demanded.

Dany looked towards Jon, who shrugged slightly in response.

“I do not know. Davos isn’t back yet,” he replied, and Dany could tell that he was a little concerned by the continued absence of his friend.

Before Dany could respond, there was a voice from behind her.

“Queen Daenerys,” said an Ironborn. “You said that you wished to meet with the commander of these newcomers, if they were allied with us.”

Dany turned around to see the kraken-helmed man walk towards them, still in full armour. He was surrounded by Unsullied on all sides, yet he did not appear to be concerned by their presence. It was only now that Dany could truly see how large the man was. He was clearly a head taller than most of the Unsullied and when he came to a halt in front of Dany, he towered over her.

Dany felt Yara tense beside her slightly as the man removed his helm, revealing his face and his grey-flecked hair. As Dany examined his features there was something about him that seemed familiar.

“ _You?”_ Yara asked, stunned.

The man turned to look at Yara, and the corners of his mouth twitched slightly.

“Niece,” he said, nodding slightly, his voice calm.

“Queen Daenerys,” said Yara, not taking her eyes off of the man. “This is my uncle, Victarion Greyjoy, my father’s Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet and the captain of the _Iron Victory_.”

Dany looked between Yara and Victarion, completely amazed by this revelation, with the familiarity of Victarion making more sense to her now. As Dany watched, Victarion looked past Yara, and his eyes fell onto Theon, and his small smile faded.

“Theon,” he said, as he took a step towards his dead nephew. “How?”

“He died fighting Euron’s men,” spat Yara.

Dany saw that Victarion’s eyes flashed with anger at the sound of Euron’s name, but his face remained a calm, passive mask.

“And where is my brother?”

“Here!” came a call from a way away.

Everyone turned towards the voice and saw Davos walking towards them, with several Unsullied with him dragging a man bound in chains. Dany looked towards Jon, and saw him smile in relief at his friend’s survival.

When Davos reached them, Jon shook his hand once more.

“It is good to see you survived, my friend,” Jon said, still smiling

“And you, my King,” Davos replied, before turning to Daenerys. “Your Grace, may I present, Euron Greyjoy.”

The Unsullied threw the man into the sand before her, and he raised his head towards her. His brown hair and whiskery beard sodden and matted with the blood from a large wound to his forehead. At the sight of her, the man leered slightly.

“So, _you_ are Daenerys Targaryen?” he said, looking her up and down. “It is a pity that I couldn’t have you share my bed.”

Dany scoffed derisively as she looked down at him defiantly, not allowing her discomfort at his words to show on her face. Euron smirked slightly as he looked past her to see Theon’s body, with Yara and Victarion stood next to it.

“That’s a shame about Theon,” he said mockingly. “But then if he wasn’t such a cock-less prick, then maybe he wouldn’t be dead.”

At this Yara drew her axe and began to storm towards Euron, but Victarion raised his arm to block her, and Dany saw that he too had his axe drawn. However, Dany didn’t think that Victarion’s anger towards Euron was based on Theon’s death.

It was a little unnerving to Dany, the way that Victarion’s eyes could be filled with such anger and hatred but his face remained a calm, stoic mask, not betraying his feelings at all.

“A new axe, brother?” Euron asked calmly. “Valyrian steel too, if my eyes are not deceiving me.”

“Yes,” responded Victarion, as he turned his axe to show its rippled, dark grey blade.

“And how did you come by it?”

“I paid the Iron Price,” Victarion replied, a little sharply, as if offended by the insinuation that he had acquired it by other means. “From a Meereenese pirate. He had claimed many Valyrian steel treasures over the years, so he had them melted down to forge this axe. He didn’t have it long, although he put a very impressive fight to keep it.”

Dany tried to not allow her distaste for the practises of the Ironborn show on her face. Tyrion and Varys had told her of their history and customs, of how they had spent centuries raiding along the shores of Westeros and selling those captured into slavery or keeping the women as their ‘salt wives.’ But she needed the Ironborn as allies, and Yara had seemingly been open to changing their ways, so she kept quiet for the moment.

“I must say, it is a bit of a surprise to see you here, brother,” said Euron, still in that smug, mocking tone. “When I sent for you, I expected to meet you at Pyke. Not here, in the midst of battle.”

“He sent for you?” Yara asked, clearly confused by this as she turned to Victarion. “After what happened between the two of you?”

“He sent a message to me after he took the Salt Throne,” Victarion said simply. “He told me that when I came back, I would be the Lord Captain of his Iron Fleet, and that we would join with the Lannisters to see the Dragon Queen fall.”

Victarion turned his gaze to Euron, and for once the anger showed on his face.

“I decided not to accept.”

“So, where were you?” spat Euron, his smug demeanour slipping slightly. “When I came back and took the throne, you were nowhere to be found.”

“I was searching,” he replied cryptically. “For the Dragonbinder.”

Dany’s eyes snapped to Victarion, feeling very unsettled by the name.

_That cannot be good_ , she thought.

“And what is that?” she demanded sharply.

“It is a horn,” the man replied simply, not reacting to her anger. “According to Moqorro, a red priest that I found, any dragon that hears the horn must obey the horn’s master, whomever claimed the horn with blood.”

Silence fell at this, the tension clearly rising among them. Dany felt rage and fear flooding through her, in equal measure.

_Does this man have this horn?_ She wondered fearfully. _Has he come to take my dragons from me?_

“So?” Euron demanded, looking around theatrically. “Where is it?”

“I never found it,” Victarion replied, causing relief to flood through Dany’s body. “I hear many tales about it. Some say it was destroyed. Some say it was lost beneath the waves. Or even that it was found by a blue-haired mercenary, but I have never heard of such a man. I do not know where it is, or even if it exists. All I know is that I could not find it.”

Dany closed her eyes and smiled in relief. It appeared that this horn, if it even existed, was far away from here and nothing to worry about.

_No one will take my dragons from me_ , Dany thought resolutely.

“Why are you here?” Yara asked suddenly.

Victarion turned to her and regarded her for a moment before speaking.

“I am here to offer you my service, niece,” he said. “I served your father faithfully for many years, followed him into two wars. I attacked Lannisport in our rebellion and raided the shores of the North in the War of the Five Kings. I even went to try and find the horn on your father’s orders, when he heard stories of the Dragon Queen from a captured merchant. I am willing to offer you the same loyalty.”

“Why?” Yara asked, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. “Why are you not claiming the Salt Throne?”

“I may not be a smart man but I do have eyes,” he said as he gestured to the various smoking wreckages in the water. “You are allied with the Dragon Queen, and I have seen what her dragons can do to our wooden longships. I am not so foolish as to declare war against them, like my brother.”

Dany looked at Yara and caught her eye. Yara was looking disbelieving but also a little hopeful.

“You would serve me, as my Lord Captain?” Yara asked.

“Yes,” he replied, with an unusual glint to his eye which made Dany a little nervous. “On one condition.”

As he said this, Victarion moved around to stand in front of Euron, and looked down at him with anger and contempt showing on his face.

“You let me execute Euron.”

A shocked silence fell at this with Dany turning, shocked, to Yara who didn’t seem that surprised by the request.

“Why would you want to kill your brother?” Dany asked, still shocked by this request.

“Because he defiled my wife,” the man growled, not removing his eyes from Euron, who was still smirking up at him. “Whether he forced himself inside her or if he seduced her, it doesn’t matter, and I don’t much care. I want him dead for it.”

Dany looked towards Yara, who nodded in confirmation of the story. Dany, feeling sick to her stomach, considered the man’s proposal. Euron was her prisoner and she needed to find out what information he might have about Cersei’s plans. But at the same time, Victarion was clearly a skilled fighter and a very capable commander, something that Dany knew that they could use as many as possible.

Dany turned to Tyrion and Varys, who both nodded to her, deferring to her judgement. Dany then looked at Jon, his arms crossed over his chest, and a look of distaste on his face. Dany knew that working with the Greyjoys was not something that Jon was comfortable with, so she was surprised and pleased when he too nodded to her.

“Once Euron has told us all he knows of Cersei’s plans,” Dany said, as she turned to the Greyjoy brothers. “Then you can execute him.”

As Dany turned to look at Yara, who smirked appreciatively back at her, Euron began to laugh.

“If that Lannister bitch has a plan, she hasn’t told me about it,” he said shaking his head. “All she told me is to come here, and make sure that you don’t leave the island alive.”

“Well, you have clearly failed in that,” replied Dany calmly. “And as you know nothing of Cersei’s plans, I think it is time that you paid for your crimes against your family.

“Victarion,” Dany continued, as she turned to Yara and looked pointedly at Theon. “You may execute Euron.”

Yara smiled at Dany, clearly understanding Dany’s meaning: that Euron’s execution was for Theon’s death, and all those that had died in the battle, just as much as it was for Victarion’s wife.

Victarion slowly walked towards Euron, who continued to smirk smugly at him.

“Come now, brother,” Euron scoffed. “You know kinslaying is forbidden among the Ironborn.”

“I know,” responded Victarion simply, as though it was the most obvious thing he had heard. The tone of his voice caused Euron’s smirk to falter slightly. “I knew it all those years ago, when you were banished by Balon. If our brother hadn’t stopped me, then you would have died then. And the passage of years has not dulled the anger I have for you. It has made it grow.”

When he reached Euron, Victarion reached down and grasped hold of the man’s head, Euron’s smirk giving way to a look of fear for the first time.

As Dany watched in horror, Victarion forced his chainmail covered thumbs into Euron’s eyes.  

The man began to scream, as his blood began to flow over Victarion’s armoured hands. Victarion pulled his thumbs from the man’s head, and Euron fell to the ground, his hands over his ruined eyes as he continued to scream. Dany looked over to her companions, the majority of whom were all looking a little unsettled by this. Except for Jon, who was looking at the writhing man with a look of anger and pity on his face, clearly disapproving of Victarion’s method of execution.

As Dany opened her mouth to tell Victarion to end Euron’s suffering, the man reached out and picked up his Valyrian steel axe with one hand, while grabbing hold of Euron’s throat with the other and forcing him up onto his knees. Victarion looked at his brother for a moment, before he raised his axe above his head and smashed it into the top of Euron’s head, carving his skull into two.

He withdrew his axe and cleaned the blood and brain from the blade.

“That was not what I had mind, when I said you could execute him,” Dany said sharply.

Victarion looked at her for a moment, with no answer, before he turned to Yara and formally pledged her his service. Yara, in turn, made him her Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet and told him to examine the seized ships, to see which ones were still fit to sail. Dany watched Victarion leaves with an uneasy feeling in her stomach.

_Just who have I allied myself with?_ She wondered, as she watched the large man leave.

Shaking her head slightly, she turned to Tyrion and Varys.

“Send letters to King’s Landing and Pyke,” she said firmly. “Inform them of Euron’s death, and tell them that the same will happen to them if they do not yield.”

As they left, quickly followed by Jon, Davos and Missandei as they left to check on Tormund and Grey Worm, Dany turned around to look at her now slumbering dragons and the smoking carcasses of the ships in the sea.

She stood there for a while, wondering how many more battles there would have to be, how many more lives lost, until she regained her family’s throne.


	16. Jaime II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go guys. I hope you enjoy it and please let me know in the comments as always.  
> Next up will be Bran.

 

Jaime

 

Jaime strode towards the Tower of the Hand, his footsteps pounding in time with the dull ache in his head. He had been up since dawn working with his many assistants, trying to find a way for Cersei to not bankrupt the crown with her and Qyburn’s mad schemes.

Jaime growled slightly in frustration when he thought back to the latest of them, which had happened around a week before. Cersei had sent ravens to all houses that hadn’t already aligned themselves to Jon Snow or Daenerys Targaryen, mostly from the Stormlands and the Westerlands. She had demanded that they send all able-bodied fighting men, anyone aged fourteen or over, to the capital, so that they could offer their services to the throne. Once they had arrived, Cersei had then made the costly declaration that they would all be outfitted with the best armour and weapons. Some had then been sent off to the various camps throughout the Stormlands to prepare for possible attacks from the north, south or from the sea. Others had been sent to places that were unknown to Jaime, as Cersei refused to share such information with him.

Jaime had been amazed and furious in equal measure by this and had attempted to explain his concerns to Cersei, but she would not listen. She was adamant that they needed to swell the ranks of their forces, in preparation for a possible attack from ‘The Bastard’, ‘The Dragon Whore’ or both. Jaime had attempted to explain that that countless untrained, untested men wouldn’t be able to stand up to the battle-hardened men under Jon Snow’s command, or the Unsullied that the Targaryen had been reported to have, well-renowned warriors from Essos.

However, Jaime’s counsel was swept aside, as it so often was recently, by the confident declaration from Qyburn that, while these men might certainty be inexperienced, the Lannister commanders were the finest in the Seven Kingdoms and they would use the men in the best way. At this, Jaime had struggled to not let out a snort of derision. The Lannister army _was_ indeed formidable, purely from its sheer size, but its strategic and tactical experience had taken massive losses by the passing of their father and soon after, due to Cersei’s machinations, their uncle Kevan. While Kevan might not have been as skilled as their father, he was still a competent commander, and his loss would soon be felt most keenly.

_None of the men we have now could be held in the same regard_ , Jaime thought sullenly, as he continued his journey towards the tower.

On the other hand, both Jon and Daenerys both had very capable commanders in their forces.

Cersei had raged for several hours when she had learned that Lord Randyll Tarly, a commander whose skill had been renowned throughout the kingdoms since Robert’s Rebellion, had pledged his fealty to Daenerys. And that was without the others from the countless other houses that had bent the knee to her. As the days went past, more and more reports flooded in of all the various houses that had joined her cause. Houses Martell, Tyrell, Velaryon, Allyrion, Blackmont. The list was growing longer by the day. In addition to this, she had the leadership of Yara Greyjoy to command her fleet, who even Euron had spoken of with grudging respect in his letters, speaking of the loyalty that she had inspired in her men.

Jon Snow on the other hand was a different matter.

While the leadership of the North had suffered greatly in the War of the Five Kings and its aftermath, with many of its commanders and warriors, such as Greatjon Umber and the Young Wolf himself perishing, Snow still had numerous men at his command who had years of experience in battle, a significant advantage. His ranks were further swelled by the entire might of the Northern houses, who had pledged themselves to the White Wolf.

Once she had learned of Jon’s ascension to King in the North, Cersei had sent a letter to the Night’s Watch, demanding answers about Jon and the threat that he might pose to them, but there had been no answer. Jaime suspected that, while the Night’s Watch was supposed to remain politically neutral, their loyalty to Snow was still intact and they wouldn’t be swayed by a threatening letter from Cersei, especially when they were placed so far north, safely behind the White Wolf’s forces.

However, stories had begun to spread throughout the capital about the White Wolf, told in hushed voices by men that, according to Qyburn’s illicit means of interrogation, had been mercenaries that had been paid for by Stannis when he went North, who had since abandoned him. Tales of Jon’s leadership when the Wildlings had attacked the wall, and some of his later actions as the Lord Commander, had made Jaime both curious and a little apprehensive about the man. Jon was clearly a very capable commander of his men, and, according to the patchy reports from the few of Qyburn’s northern spies, he had inspired a great deal of loyalty from his bannermen.

_Not looking good for us_ , Jaime thought as he approached the door. _From either side._

Jaime walked inside and was greeted by the now familiar sight of his sister at the head of the table, the tall, imposing form of the Mountain standing at her back and Qyburn sat to her side, whispering into her ear. At the sight, anger had flared up within Jaime. His hatred of Qyburn grew by the day, as Jaime saw the influence that he was having over his sister grow, which Jaime knew that was mainly due to his sycophantic obedience, constantly feeding Cersei’s ego and paranoia to bolster his own position.

Jaime looked at Cersei and was a little shocked by how she looked. The dark rings under her eyes had grown further and when she looked at him, there was a tiredness behind her green eyes that told Jaime that she was still not sleeping. However, there was also sense of anger brimming behind her eyes as well which grew when she looked down at a letter in front of her, immediately extinguishing all tiredness. Jaime sighed and rubbed his forehead at the sight.

_Something had clearly happened._

“What has happened?” Jaime asked, as he took his seat to Cersei’s right.

Saying nothing, Cersei pushed the letter towards him. Jaime picked it up, still looking at his sister curiously, who was looking off into space, her eyes still blazing with anger. Shaking his head slightly, Jaime looked down at the letter.

_Dearest sister,_

_Euron Greyjoy is dead._

_He and his fleets were destroyed by Daenerys’ army in his foolish attack on Dragonstone, and he was killed by his brother Victarion, who too has joined Daenerys. Euron was not well known for such rank stupidity, so I have to assume that you ordered this attack. Congratulations, sister! You have just lost hundreds of your own men, as well as nearly a thousand Ironborn, due to your foolishness and arrogance._

_Daenerys has reached an alliance with Jon Snow, the King in the North. She now outmatches you on both land and sea and, between the two of them, they control four of the Seven Kingdoms that you claim to rule over._

_She offers you, and your Ironborn allies, a last chance to surrender. Bend the knee, acknowledge her as the true Queen of Westeros and you will be allowed to keep your life, whatever it is worth._

_Surrender, sister. If not for yourself, then for our brother’s sake. Even if the kingdoms and its people mean nothing to you, surely Jaime still does?_

_Regardless of your decision, I expect that I will be seeing you soon._

_Your brother,_

_Tyrion_

Jaime looked in shock at the signature at the bottom of the letter, instantly recognising it as his brother’s.

_He is with Daenerys?_ Jaime thought, shocked.

While he was undeniably happy about Tyrion’s survival, despite his lingering anger towards his brother, Jaime was a little surprised that he had joined forces with the Targaryen against his family. While Jaime knew that Tyrion despised by Cersei and their father, he hadn’t assumed that his hatred was this great, that he would be willing to see her dead.

He read through the letter again, growing more confused and angry when he read about Euron’s attempted attack and his fate. Jaime looked up and saw that Cersei was still determinedly avoiding his eye.

“ _Did_ you order this?” Jaime demanded angrily, holding up the letter.

Cersei finally turned to look at him, and he saw the look of cold rage on her face.

“Yes,” she replied simply. “I ordered the Ironborn to attack our _enemy_.”

“When?” Jaime asked.

“As soon as we learned of the whore’s landing on Dragonstone,” spat Cersei, her voice rising slightly, causing the Mountain to shift in response.

“Gods damn it, Cersei!” Jaime exclaimed, banging his golden hand onto the table in frustration. “I would think my experience in battle would mean you would include me in such plans.”

“And what would you have counselled?” she shrieked, rising from her seat. “Let that bitch gather her army on our doorstep?”

“I would have counselled against sending hundreds of our men to their death in wooden boats against her fucking _dragons_!” Jaime roared back, also rising to his feet.

The twins stood staring at each other, both seething with anger and breathing heavily as though they had been running. After a moment, Jaime took a deep, calming breath and rubbed his face with his hand.

“How many men did we lose?” Jaime asked quietly, trying to defuse the tension, knowing that they would not get anywhere while Cersei was shouting and raving at him.

“Around six hundred Lannister men,” responded Qyburn calmly, causing Jaime’s blood to boil, knowing that it was likely his idea in the first place. “And, like your brother’s letter says, just under a thousand Ironborn casualties.”

While he hadn’t said Tyrion’s name, the effect was the same. Cersei’s eyes narrowed into slits and her hands coiled into fists on the table top, her knuckles white from how hard she was clenching them. Jaime glared over the table at Qyburn, realising that the man was deliberately keeping Cersei angry so that she would be more likely to accept his schemes and less likely to listen to reason.

“So,” said Jaime loudly, addressing Qyburn. “We have lost hundreds of men, dozens of ships and Euron Greyjoy, the commander of our fleet. Meanwhile they have gained their first victory in this war and a new commander in Victarion Greyjoy. A man who commanded Balon Greyjoy’s Iron Fleet for years and has rarely lost a battle. I think we can all agree that this was a foolish move.”

Jaime didn’t lower his gaze from Qyburn, who defiantly met his eyes and couldn’t miss the implications of Jaime’s words and furious stare. Cersei, on the hand, was oblivious. She had sunk into her chair and was staring into the depths of her wine goblet, completely unaware of the battle of words between her brother and Qyburn.

“What about Pyke?” Jaime demanded, turning his gaze to Cersei. “We can assume that they will receive a similar letter, with news of Victarion’s return. He is well respected in the Iron Islands. What if they decided to follow him in joining Yara and Daenerys?”

“They won’t,” replied Cersei, not looking up from her goblet.

“How do you know?” growled Jaime through gritted teeth, his temper rising again at her seeming lack of interest.

“Before Euron left Pyke, he left his brother Aeron in charge,” replied Qyburn, with a smug tone. “We installed a garrison of Lannister men on Pyke. Two thousand men, under the command of Ser Daven Lannister, to keep the Ironborn in line.

“We have sent word to Ser Daven to install Aeron as the new king of the Iron Islands, and to keep him in alliance with us.”

“Will he accept those terms?” Jaime asked, as he remembered his vague lessons from childhood about the Ironborn of Pyke, in particular the kingsmoot that they held to select their rulers.

“He won’t have a choice,” snarled Cersei, as she finally looked up. “He will be given a choice. He can become the king and rule his people in alliance with us, or Daven will put Pyke to the sword.”

Jaime sat stunned by this. He thought back to what he knew of Ser Daven. He was the son of Ser Stafford Lannister, Tywin’s cousin and brother-in-law, who had been killed in the Battle of Oxcross by Robb Stark’s forces, apparently killed by Lord Rickard Karstark. Jaime was surprised by the orders that Cersei had given their relative. He vaguely remembered Daven as a jovial man and found it hard to believe that he would consider slaughtering innocent people, purely because Cersei had ordered it.

_I wonder what she threatened him with,_ Jaime wondered as he looked at his sister.

Jaime was a little confused by Cersei’s certainty in Daven’s success at keeping the Ironborn in check. While Daven was a reasonably skilled warrior and his men were no doubt well-trained Lannister men, as they had been sent to Pyke prior to Cersei’s recent conscription scheme, Jaime couldn’t see how they would manage to keep the entirety of Pyke under control. While the Lannister men would no doubt put up a strong fight against the inferiorly trained and armoured Ironborn, Jaime knew that any attempt to use force on Pyke would more than likely result in Daven’s death.

_Unless that is what she wants,_ Jaime pondered, as he looked between Cersei and Qyburn. _Daven’s death would give her an excuse, as if she need one, to invade the Iron Islands and bring them under her heel._

The thought of it made Jaime’s head ache further. The secrets and schemes that Cersei and Qyburn had made were now so numerous that they twisted and entwined with each other, making it hard to tell where one ended and the next began. Jaime shook his head and tried to focus.

“So, you are going to install Aeron Greyjoy as the puppet ruler of Pyke,” Jaime said scornfully. “With you pulling the strings.”

“Yes,” she replied simply.

Cersei looked at him, frowning slightly at the tone of his voice. Jaime stared back at her defiantly, not bothering to hide his distaste for this course of action. As Jaime looked at her, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of sadness at the situation and resignation at what he knew he must do. The two of them had been so close for their whole lives, _too_ close in some ways, but Jaime could feel the chasm that had opened between them, like a dark abyss.

Jaime turned to look at the main architect of the divide between the siblings, and his anger and hatred burned inside him when he caught sight of Qyburn’s smug grin across the table. Jaime gritted his teeth and coiled his remaining hand into a fist, as he imagined reached over the table and smashing his golden hand into the maester’s face, sending his teeth to the floor.

_One day soon_ , Jaime thought, as he continued to match Qyburn’s smug look with one of pure loathing, _I will have your life, maester._

*

A few days later, Jaime and Bronn sat in one of the many locations that they used for their meetings, a bustling tavern by the docks. The crowd was thick with sailors of all kinds, the odour of various kinds of fish and sweat mixing with the smells of pipe smoke and ale that lay thick over the room. The two of them had picked this tavern as it was always full of drunken men, who were unlikely to overhear their conversation and, even if they did or if recognised either of them, they wouldn’t remember it come the morrow.

The two of them had spent the last few days thinking tirelessly of a way to remove Qyburn, the Mountain and potentially Ilyn Payne as well from the Red Keep. Jaime knew that time was of the essence as Qyburn could suggest another foolish attempt on Dragonstone at any moment, particularly now that Jon Snow was also there and allying himself with Daenerys.

Jaime sat back in his chair and sighed deeply in frustration. They had been thinking for days but had not come up with anything that would work. Bronn had suggested using the various secret passages within Maegor’s Holdfast and attacking them in the night, but Jaime had reminded him that, while the tunnels would keep them unseen, there was increased guard presence during the night and the Mountain himself kept vigil outside of Cersei’s chambers, along with half a dozen other guards.

After one of the servants, a young boy no older than twelve, brought over two more tankards of ale for them, Jaime leaned forwards and rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand.

“There has got to be some way,” Jaime said desperately. “Some way we can get to that fucking maester and his pet monster.”

Bronn didn’t answer him at first. He was staring across the room, with his eyes unfocused, clearly lost in thought. Then he turned to Jaime, with a look of mute triumph on his face.

“The Sparrows,” he said.

“What?” Jaime responded, raising his eyebrows in confusion.

“We can use the Sparrows to get the Mountain.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Bronn?” Jaime demanded. “They are all dead. Cersei and her wildfire saw to that.”

“But does she know that?” Bronn asked cryptically. “What if there were some that weren’t in the Sept when it exploded? Either preaching their shite in the streets or in other parts of the kingdoms to praise the virtues of the High Sparrow.”

Jaime ignored the sarcasm in his friend’s voice at the end of his statement, as he lost himself in thought. Cersei’s hatred of the High Sparrow and his followers was well known but would it allow her to believe that she had missed some of them?

“So, what is your plan?” Jaime asked, looking at Bronn.

“Some of my men can act as the Sparrows, spreading a little unrest in the smallfolk,” started Bronn, his voice becoming more confident as his plan took shape. “When Cersei learns of it, she might send the Mountain to put them down and we catch him in an ambush.”

“ _Might?_ ” Jaime said, raising an eyebrow. “Might is not good enough, Bronn. What if she doesn’t? What if she sends a legion of soldiers and your men can’t get away in time? They will be decimated.”

“For fuck’s sake!” Bronn exclaimed. “You know your sister better than I do. Would she send the Mountain to deal with them?”

Jaime thought for a moment, thinking hard. He wasn’t sure if she would. The Mountain had been her shadow since Jaime had returned to King’s Landing, and he wasn’t sure if she would send him away from her. However, if she had Ilyn Payne at her side, then she might be more agreeable to the idea… particularly if Jaime suggests it to her.

_Qyburn too might agree with me if I word my suggestion correctly_ , Jaime thought.

“She might,” Jaime said steadily, keeping his expectations low as he was well aware that Cersei’s moods were hard to detect these days. “But we will need to plan this carefully.”

“I know a few places where we could prepare a suitable ambush,” Bronn said.

“Why do you-?” Jaime began to ask before stopping himself. He wondered how many unsolved murders in King’s Landing were due to Bronn and the various men under his command. “There is one problem that we will need to deal with. Your men don’t have the seven-pointed star engraved into their foreheads, and I doubt that many of them would be willing to do that.”

Bronn nodded for a moment in agreement and took a swig from his tankard.

“They could wear masks with the star on them,” he suggested.

“Masks?” Jaime said disbelievingly. “Since when did the Sparrows wear masks?”

“Back then, they ruled the fucking city,” Bronn replied, lowering his voice as someone passed close to the table. “They could do whatever they fucking wanted, with no consequence, so they had no need to hide who they were. Now they would be hunted like dogs if they revealed themselves. They would have to be fucking stupid to not disguise themselves.”

Jaime considered the course of action they were contemplating. When she learned of possible Sparrows lurking the city, Cersei’s anger and paranoia would grow, and the restrictions on the smallfolk of the city would grow immeasurably. And, if they were successful and the Mountain was perceived to be killed by the Sparrows, then her reprisals would be dire for those she deemed responsible.

_But hopefully Qyburn will be dead too before long_ , Jaime reasoned. _And she might be more willing to listen to reason._

_Might._

This was a lot to risk on such little promise of success, but what choice did they have? If they did nothing, then Qyburn would continue to manipulate Cersei and the realm would plunge further into chaos. Jaime decided that he would rather attempt to make things better, even if they didn’t succeed, than sit back and do nothing while the realm burned around them.

Jaime looked at Bronn, who looked as though he was feeling similar. They nodded grimly and raised their tankards in toast to each other, knowing that they would either succeed or, the more likely outcome, be killed in the attempt.

*

Over the next few days, Bronn’s mercenaries began to stir up trouble in the city. They began to attack those who would have been deemed as ‘sinners’ by the true Sparrows, various whoremongers and known drunkards, as well as preaching in the streets about how Cersei had been forsaken by the gods due to her incestuous relationship with her brother, and the products of this union had all died through the will of the gods. Jaime had been a little disconcerted when he had heard this, as the loss of Myrcella and Tommen was still fresh in his mind, but he realised that the preaching needed to sound authentic if their plan was to work.

It did… in part.

When she had learned about the resurgence of the Sparrows, Cersei’s rage had shocked Jaime. She had thrown numerous items across the room, while declaring that those responsible and their kin would suffer greatly, promising beheadings, torture and death by hanging as the kindest options of death.

Jaime tried to counsel for sending the Mountain to deal with them, to show the people the strength of the crown with the Mountain crushing the Sparrows. Qyburn too, to Jaime’s relief and surprise, had advocated the use of the Mountain but his reasoning was to scare the populace into obedience, under the threat of reprisals from the Mountain. Jaime, while a little uncomfortable with Qyburn’s motivation, stayed silent, grateful that the man was, for once, agreeing with him.

Cersei, however, ignored them both.

She had ordered the Mountain and Ilyn Payne to not leave her side and had instead ordered all possible Lannister troops into the streets, to search house by house until the Sparrows were found. She had also effectively placed the city into quarantine, with more guards lining the gates into the city. It had stretched the troops to breaking point, with many of them barely sleeping or eating, causing morale to dip.

However, Jaime’s main concern was for the citizens of King’s Landing. While he had known and accepted that there would be some action taken against them in retaliation, the level of punishment that Cersei had levelled upon them weighed heavy on his conscience. Entire families were uprooted and hanged on hearing the merest whisper that they had harboured the Sparrows and people could be arrested for merely pronouncing their faith in the Seven, in case they were Sparrows. He felt a crushing sense of guilt that he had forced this upon them, as well as increasing anger towards Qyburn and Cersei.

What also worried Jaime was Cersei. He had assumed that if Qyburn had advised her to use the Mountain against the Sparrows then she would follow his advice, as she had done so often before. Instead she had disregarded both of their advice and had implemented all of these harsh measures of her own accord. It made Jaime wonder just how much of the actions that he previously credited to Qyburn had actually been his idea.

It had also made him wonder something that plagued his thoughts, in his dreams as well as when he was awake.

_Could Cersei be saved?_

Jaime had lost count of the amount of times that he had had the same dream. At first Jaime had thought it was simply a dream of him killing the Mad King, something that he had dreamed of multiple times before in the years since the event. However, he soon saw that it hadn’t been Aerys sitting in the Throne.

It had been Cersei.

Countless times now, Jaime had watched himself kill Cersei and it had begun to make him wonder. Were these dreams merely showing him what he continued to _dread_ that he would have to do? Or were they showing him that he would _have_ to do, to keep the people of the Seven Kingdoms safe from another tyrannical ruler?

Jaime and Bronn continued to work in secret, redoubling their efforts to kill the Mountain and Qyburn in light of their guilt at the repercussions from their first move.

Luckily, Cersei seemed to made it a little easier for them.

When she had ordered her men into the streets to patrol or to stand guard at the entrances, it had meant that the guard presence in the Red Keep was significantly reduced. Jaime had been a little surprised that she hadn’t sent for her new conscripts but she had told him that she had them either still readying themselves for a possible attack from Snow or the Targaryen or they were forming a ring around the city, to stop any possible escapees from fleeing from ‘justice’.

However, she still had around thirty men that stayed within the keep, ready to defend her at a moment’s notice. Jaime and Bronn had decided to lure as many of them away as possible by passing on the news that the hideout of the Sparrows had been located, and that Jaime would need as many of the men as he could have to root them out.

Jaime and Bronn both recognised that it wasn’t the best plan and could very easily go wrong, but they had grown desperate. Their initial attempt had failed miserably and the people of King’s Landing were suffering for it. In the days before they had put their ‘plan’ into action, Cersei had implemented a new law: anyone who was even _associated_ with someone who had been arrested under _suspicion_ of being a Sparrow would too be arrested.

It was this that spurred Jaime and Bronn to finally act as, while they knew that their plan was unlikely to work, they had to _try_ to stop this madness.

*

Jaime stood outside the door to the Great Hall dressed in full armour with his sword strapped to his hip, breathing heavily as he prepared himself. Steeling himself, Jaime opened the door and strode into the room, making his way towards the Iron Throne, upon which Cersei sat, bolt upright.

“Cersei!” Jaime called, as he headed towards her, his voice echoing around the room. “I have news about the Sparrows.”

She sat up a little straighter at these words, and every eye in the hall turned to Jaime as he came to a halt in front of the throne.

“They have been moving between different hideouts to escape detection. Bronn heard in one of the taverns about where they will be now: an old fishing warehouse near the harbour.”

Cersei stood up and looked down on Jaime with a look of vicious triumph on her face, and a wicked smile on her lips.

“Take as many men as you need, brother,” she said imperiously. “And kill them all.”

As she said this she waved her hand towards the men watched and ushered them forward to join Jaime.

“Cersei?” Jaime said, faking concern. “Are you sure you should send these men with me?”

“Only half of them,” she replied, as the men moved to stand behind Jaime.

“But that will leave you exposed,” Jaime said, hoping his voice sounded sincere.

“I will have the Mountain,” she replied finally, as though that ended the discussion. “As well as Ilyn Payne and the other half of the men. I will be fine, brother. Go! Take all the men you come across on your way there.”

Jaime nodded and made his way out of the hall, the other fifteen men following close behind him. As they marched out of the keep and made their way towards the harbour, Jaime knew that before long Bronn and his men would be making their way into the keep, using the tunnels throughout Maegor’s Holdfast.

_Good luck, my friend_ , thought Jaime, as he came across a patrolling group of guards and ordered them to join them. _I think you will need it._

The growing group of men marched through the streets, the noise from their armoured footsteps echoing around the cobbled streets. Jaime saw numerous people run back inside their homes in terror, afraid that they and their family would be taken. The sight fuelled Jaime’s desire to act and spurred him forward, calming the gnawing feeling of doubt in his gut.

Jaime’s group of men grew as they made their way through the streets and, by the time they reached the harbour, it had reached nearly fifty men. Jaime made his way towards the warehouse that he and Bronn had chosen, it had actually been one of their hideouts where they had planned this very act.

Drawing his blade, Jaime ordered his men to move inside and kill all those inside. As they headed inside the warehouse was completely empty, a fact well known to Jaime. As his men looked around, Jaime rearranged his face into a look of confusion and disbelief, while at the same time wondering how Bronn was doing at the castle and wondering if they had made the right choice.

After his men had searched the entire warehouse, and found it empty of anyone, Jaime had made himself looked shocked, as though he had been struck by a sudden realisation.

“It’s a trap!” Jaime shouted as he made his way to the door. “The Sparrows have drawn us away. Back to the keep!”

Jaime sprinted back through the streets, with his men hot on his heels. As they passed dozens of confused and scared citizens, Jaime prayed over and over again that Bronn had succeeded, hoping that his friend was still alive.

Before long the Red Keep loomed above them and they raced inside, heading for the Great Hall. When he reached the doors, Jaime threw them open…

And froze in shock.

The Mountain was standing amid a pile of corpses, with countless severed limbs littering the floor, holding the last surviving man up from the floor by his throat. As Jaime watched, the Mountain ripped the mask from the man’s face before grabbing hold of his head, underneath of the man’s jaw and, with an almighty pull, tore the man’s head from his shoulders.

Jaime’s breath caught in his throat as he saw the body fall the floor. The Mountain looked at the head for a moment, before turning to Cersei, who nodded to him. The Mountain threw the head towards Jaime. It spun in the air, throwing blood everything as it passed through the air, before coming to a stop in front of Jaime, face down. Unable to stop himself, Jaime bent down and turned the head over.

It was Bronn.

Jaime recoiled in horror from the remnants of his friend as a wave of remorse flooded through him.

_My friend is dead,_ Jaime thought desperately, vaguely aware of all the men behind him drawing their swords. _And it is my fault._

“Jaime,” called Cersei’s voice from above him. It sounded different than it had in a long time. Almost _sad_.

Jaime raised his head and saw that he was encircled by the Lannister men he had been with, their blades all pointing towards him. Jaime looked towards Cersei as she walked towards him. As she grew closer, he saw that her cheeks were wet and her eyes sparkled with unshed tears.

“I didn’t believe it at first,” she said shakily, and Jaime could hear the sadness in her voice all the more clearly now. “Qyburn told me that he had heard from Varys’ little birds that you had been planning treason.”

_Fuck!_ Jaime thought angrily as he cursed himself for his stupidity.

He thought back to the tavern when he and Bronn had devised their plan to use the Sparrows as their method to draw out the Mountain. He vaguely remembered the small servant boy that had served them their ale. He hadn’t really thought much about it at the time, as he had been too engrossed in trying to find a method to draw out the Mountain, but now, in hindsight, it should have crossed his mind that he could have been a spy for _somebody_ , even if it wasn’t Qyburn.

“So, why?” Jaime demanded angrily, as he straightened up to his full height, not allowing a hint of remorse or regret to show on his face, although his insides burned with guilt and grief at Bronn’s death. “Why did you allow me to go this far, if you already knew? You even gave me your men.”

“Because I didn’t believe Qyburn,” replied Cersei, as she continued to look at him through sorrow-filled eyes. “I told him that I wouldn’t believe that you would turn on me until I saw it with my own eyes. I gave you these men because I thought you were telling the truth about the Sparrows. I didn’t know the truth until the Mountain removed Bronn’s mask.”

Cersei looked at him as though she was seeing him for the first time, and Jaime refused to lower his gaze.

“Did you truly think that this would work?” She asked, shaking her head. “What was your plan? Kill me and become king yourself?”

“The plan wasn’t to kill _you_ , Cersei,” Jaime replied, and he saw her brow furrow in confusion. “The plan was to kill Qyburn and the Mountain, to stop that smirking piece of shit having such influence over you.

“But, did I think our plan would actually work?” Jaime continued, as he looked up towards the cavernous ceiling. “Truly? No. Deep down I knew our plan was deeply flawed, and that we would both probably die. But I knew that I had to do _something_! Something to stop this madness!”

Cersei looked at him for a moment, shaking her head.

“And why should I believe your words now?” She said quietly. “I believed that you wouldn’t turn against me and Qyburn was proven right when he warned me against your treachery.

“I never thought it would be you,” she said cryptically, as she pushed her way through the surrounding ring of Lannister soldiers. “ _You_! The _Valonqar.”_

Jaime looked at her, completely unaware of what she was talking about.

“What the fuck-?” he began, before he was grabbed from behind by several of the Lannister men.

“Take him to the Black Cells,” she said, her face now a mask of rage and cruelty.

Jaime was pulled from the room, his feet dragging on the stone floor behind him. He hung his head, allowing his feelings to well up from within him now that he was not facing Cersei. His guilt over Bronn’s death, his regret that their attempt failed, the resigned knowledge of not only his impending death, but also that he could now do nothing to stop the machinations of Qyburn and the deaths that would follow as a consequence.

As Jaime was dragged from the hall, he looked over his shoulder, as much as he could, and saw Bronn’s head still lying on the floor and once again felt a wave of grief.

_He had failed._


	17. Bran II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. Sorry for the wait. I hope you all enjoy it.  
> Just a quick heads up. I have started a temporary work placement this week so for the next few weeks there will likely only be one chapter per week, as my writing time has been reduced quite a bit. Sorry about this guys.  
> Either way, next up will be Tyrion.

 

Bran

 

Bran sat back in his chair with a wide smile on his face, a feeling of happiness brimming within him as he looked between his two sisters. He had just got used to being back home with Sansa, and Jon’s return from Dragonstone with news of an alliance with Daenerys Targaryen was anticipated by all, when he had been roughly awakened in the middle of the night by a flushed-faced and beaming Sansa.

After being carried down into the main hall, Bran had seen Arya sitting at one of the tables, grimy and tired looking as she devoured the plate of food in front of her, and he too began to beam his excitement.

Bran remembered how, when she had looked up at the sound of the door opening, Arya had jumped up and raced towards him, calling his name joyously. She had thrown her arms around his neck and Bran was a little surprised by the strength of her grip, which was far firmer than he remembered. But that confusion was soon washed away by the way of relief and joy that he felt at being reunited with another member of his family.

It was now the evening of Arya’s second day back at Winterfell. She had slept for much of the first, having been on the road for so long, only leaving her room to raid the kitchens. She had finally risen at around noon on the second day and the three of them had retreated to Jon’s study to talk.

Arya had been cautious in telling her story, as though she was concerned by their reaction to what she told them. While Bran had been a little shocked by what Arya had seen, and done, he didn’t blame her at all. She had been forced to go on the run from the Lannisters, one of the most powerful families in the Seven Kingdoms, and had been beset by dangers the whole way. While she had killed many people, Bran knew that if she hadn’t then she would have died long ago.

Bran had looked over towards Sansa and had seen that, while she too was a little unsettled about seeing their sister talk about all the ways that she had killed people, he didn’t detect any sense of anger or disgust in her expression. He could only see pity for what Arya had been through and relief that she had made it through.

As Arya had explained what she had done at the Twins, Bran had been a little shocked. While he too understood the need for revenge against the Freys for their betrayal and murder of their mother and brother, he didn’t believe that slaughtering them in their sleep was the right way to do it. Maybe it was the lessons from his father about Stark honour that was influencing his choice, but he believed that they should have been captured and executed either by hanging or beheading, and giving them a relatively painless death, rather than being stabbed in the throat and choking on their own blood.

However, Bran also realised that Arya, who had made it to the Twins on the night of the Red Wedding and had seen part of the massacre first hand rather than in a vison in the weirwood trees, was probably in a better place to judge what the Freys deserved than he was. He also didn’t want her to believe that he was judging her too harshly for her actions, as he could still sense the hesitation in her voice, which had gotten more noticeable when she had begun her story about the Twins.

Bran was brought back to the present when he realised that both of his sisters had turned to him, with Arya clearly having asked him something.

“Sorry, Arya,” Bran said sincerely. “What did you say?”

Arya chuckled slightly before answering.

“I asked if you could tell me more about your abilities,” she said, looking curious. “I’ve seen some strange things but what you have said is nothing like that.”

Bran took a deep breath and looked up to the ceiling, deep in thought.

“They started after my fall from the Broken Tower,” Bran said slowly. “While I was sleeping, I would have dreams through the eyes of Summer or I would constantly see a Three-Eyed Raven.

“And then the dreams became visions.”

Bran saw Sansa and Arya looked at him confused for a moment, but he closed his eyes. He remembered how he felt whenever he awoke from one of those dreams. He had the certainty that something was going to happen, the helplessness with trying to work out what the visions meant and the frustration when no one really believed him.

Bran sighed deeply, and opened his eyes once more to see his sisters looking at him a little worried.

“The first important one was of Father,” he said, seeing them both stiffen at his words. “I dreamt that I went down into the crypts and I saw Father there. The next day I went down there with Osha and Rickon had gone down there before us, having had the same dream.

“Once we came out of the crypts, Maester Luwin came over to tell us about Father’s execution.”

There was a moment of silence in the room, and Bran could see that his sisters were looking impressed at his declaration but also saddened by the mention of their father’s death.

“How did Rickon have the same dream as you?” Sansa asked, looking confused.

“I have wondered that too,” Bran replied, as his half-made theories began to spin through his mind. “Maybe the Three-Eyed Raven reached out to Rickon too. Maybe _I_ did without knowing it. Or maybe Rickon too had similar abilities that he never got a chance to develop.”

Bran jolted slightly at his own words, stunned by how blunt they had sounded. A wave of remorse and grief for his brother flooded through him as he looked over to his sisters apologetically, both of whom looking saddened too but not angry towards him.

Bran exhaled shakily, before composing himself once more.

“Not too long after that, I had another. I dreamt that the sea had come to Winterfell and drowned all who were within it, including Ser Rodrik. Not long after, Theon attacked and captured Winterfell with many people, including Ser Rodrik, being killed.”

Sansa and Arya’s eyes widened further and Bran could see that they were getting more and more convinced and impressed the more he explained.

“I didn’t know what the visions were,” he continued quickly, hoping to head off any questions. “Until I met Jojen. He explained that my visions were greenseeing, the ability to see things events that are happening now, in the past or in the future.”

Bran paused for a moment and thought of his friend, someone who had guided him all the way North to the Three-Eyed Raven, despite knowing that he would die in the process. Bran couldn’t find the words to express the gratitude he felt towards Jojen, even if he was still confused over why he was worthy of such a sacrifice.

Bran took a deep breath and pushed away his grief.

“As we headed further North I discovered my other ability: warging. I can enter the mind of animals and people and basically control them. The dreams that I had of me within Summer was me warging without knowing it. After a while I could do it at will and enter Summer whenever I wanted, as well as into Hodor. Jojen said that I am the only warg who has ever managed that feat.”

“You can control _people_?” Arya said with her mouth wide open, looking awestruck.

“Yes,” said Bran quickly, desperate to curb Arya’s enthusiasm. “But whenever I did it to Hodor, it was when we had no other choice, whenever we were in grave danger. I didn’t like doing it to him. It felt wrong, like I was invading his mind.”

_And when I broke it_ , Bran thought solemnly, as he remembered how Hodor received his name.

Arya clearly saw the look of regret and remorse on Bran’s face and her excitement ebbed away to be replaced by a look of guilt.

“So, what happened when you reached the Three-Eyed Raven?” Sansa asked, as she looked cautiously between Bran and Arya, clearly trying to change the subject slightly. “Did you have any more visions?”

“I managed to develop my abilities through the weirwood trees,” Bran explained “Whenever I touch one, I can see things. The first thing he showed me was the Red Wedding.”

An eerie silence fell in the room at Bran’s words. None of them had really spoken much about Robb and their Mother’s death, only to express how angry they felt at their betrayal and how much they missed them. It wasn’t a subject that they had discussed often and Bran could see the tension build at his words, so he quickly continued his story to prevent it from growing further.

“I saw many other things too. I saw Father training with Uncle Benjen. Aunt Lyanna was there as well.”

The tension in the room vanished at these words, to be replaced by a feeling of curiosity and wonder. Lyanna had died before the three of them had been born and their father had not spoken about Lyanna often. The only way that they knew what she looked like was the statue of her in the crypt. Bran could see the slight look of envy on both of his sister’s faces, that he had actually seen their aunt’s face while they had to make do with the pale likeness of her statue.

“Were there any more of Father?” Sansa asked excitedly.

Bran looked at his sister’s face and, seeing the look of excitement on her face, felt guilty that he had little to offer in return.

“The only other vision of Father that I had was when he left for the Vale,” Bran replied.

_Although that wasn’t the most important part of that vision_ , Bran thought, as he once more recalled the screams of Hodor as his mind was broken, torn apart by him entering his mind.

“Have you had any others?” Arya asked.

“I had one of you,” Bran replied, smiling slightly. “I had a vision of you walking through the woods with a group of men with burning swords and a large dog with a burned face.”

“Me and the Brotherhood,” Arya whispered, almost to herself.

Bran nodded to her, continuing to smile. However, inside Bran was conflicted. He _wanted_ to tell them both of his vision of the Tower of Joy, of the truth about Jon. He wanted to tell them about how Jon was in fact their cousin, the son of Lyanna and a man who he suspected was Rhaegar Targaryen, and not their half-brother as they had suspected. Not only would it explain the truth about Jon’s past but it would exonerate their father from the only dishonourable act that they had believed he had committed.

However, Bran also knew that Jon deserved to know the truth about himself before anyone else, even his family.

He decided to compromise.

“I also had one about Jon,” Bran said, seeing Arya straightened slightly at the mention of Jon.

Bran knew that Arya had probably been the closest to him other than Robb while they had been growing up, so she would be very curious about any vision that Bran had had about him, particularly after what he had just told her.

“What happened?” Arya asked in a hushed voice, and Bran could detect an undercurrent of fear in her tone.

“I don’t think Jon is in trouble,” replied Bran placatingly. “My vision didn’t show him in danger.”

_I hope_ , Bran thought, as he knew that if Jon’s true parentage was revealed it could have serious consequences.

“What did you see?” Arya demanded, as she leaned forward and grasped hold of the arms of her chair tightly.

“Arya, I’m sorry,” Bran said. “But I can’t say any more. I didn’t want to lie to you two about anything, that is why I told you that I had the vision. But I can’t tell you what happened yet. It affects Jon the most out of all of us. It is his life, so he deserves to be the first to know.”

Arya looked mutinous for a moment, looking as though she would object to his reasoning. But then she nodded jerkily and leaned back in her hair, folding her arms over her chest. Sansa reached out to place a comforting hand on her sister’s shoulder.

And Bran didn’t miss what happened next.

When Sansa’s hand made contact with Arya’s shoulder, she stiffened suddenly. Although she immediately relaxed as she turned to Sansa and had a thankful smile on her face, Bran thought it looked stiff and forced. He had noticed Arya’s strained behaviour towards Sansa earlier, particularly when she had explained her escape from King’s Landing with Littlefinger’s aid.

While Bran knew that his sisters had not always been the closest while they had been growing up, he had suspected that their time apart, and all the collective horrors that they had suffered, would have pulled the together like nothing else had.

Clearly, he was wrong.

A knock at the door pulled his attention away, and he turned to see the new Winterfell maester enter the room. Bran knew that Wolkan was a good, knowledgeable man who had advised Jon and Sansa well but it was still strange for him to see someone other than Luwin wearing a maester’s chain in Winterfell.

“Lady Sansa,” the man said, as he bowed his head respectfully. “I apologise but there is a visitor who will need your personal attention.”

Sansa sighed as she rose to her feet.

“I’m sorry,” she said, as she looked between them. “I’ll try not to be too long.”

As Sansa passed him, Bran felt her pat him on the shoulder slightly, but he was too busy looking at Arya. Now that Sansa’ back was turned, Arya wasn’t trying to hide a look of distrust and anger that Bran was very confused by. When she sensed Bran’s gaze, Arya’s face became a passive mask, but Bran’s curiosity was piqued.

This seemed to be a lot more than the sibling confrontations of their childhood years. Even during some of their worst fights and arguments, Bran had not seen Arya look at Sansa with such vehemence on her face, almost a look of loathing.

As the door closed behind him, Bran looked over at Arya, who seemed to be determined to avoid his eye. The silence stretched on for a few moments, before Bran decided to give voice to his suspicions.

“Arya,” he said firmly, causing her to turn slowly towards him, looking defiant. “What is the problem?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Bran,” Arya said, shaking her head dismissively.

“You do,” Bran continued doggedly. “You clearly have a problem with Sansa. What is it?”

Arya looked away from him, not even denying it, causing Bran to feel a small rush of anger.

“We have all be apart for so long, and all you seem to care about is resuming the childhood fight that you two used to have. Why?”

“That is not what is happening,” Arya said defensively.

“Then explain!” Bran responded heatedly, ignoring the shocked look on her face at his tone. It was not in his nature to lose his temper easily but he wasn’t going to sit back and allow his siblings to get back at each other’s throats, not when they had only just been reunited after so long and when there were far more important things to worry about.

Arya sighed deeply, before looking at Bran with an odd look on her face, an oddly furtive and appraising look, as though she was wondering if she could trust him. Thinking back to Arya’s story of her time away from Winterfell, Bran cursed his own stupidity. He realised that the last person that she had trusted had been the assassin, Jaqen H’ghar, or at least someone she had _thought_ was him, and he had sent the Waif to kill her.

_After that, it would be hard for her to trust anyone_ , Bran thought, with a feeling of pity as he looked at his sister.

“Arya,” he said in a far softer tone, as he reached out to grasp hold of her hand. “I know that it has been a long time since you could fully trust someone, for the fear that they would hurt or betray you. But remember, I am your brother. You have nothing to fear from me.”

Although his words did nothing to change her expression, he saw Arya’s guard drop when his hand made contact with hers. The carefully constructed walls of secrecy and isolation that she had built up over the years came crashing down around her and Bran saw a look of gratitude and helplessness cross over her face, melting away the defiant and stoic mask that had been in place for so long.

Bran wasn’t too concerned by the initial lack of trust that Arya has seemed to show in him, as he knew that not revealing her thoughts and feelings to others must be something of a habit by now for her, so much so that it would be hard to drop even for her family. As she looked at him, he saw the hesitation in her eyes and Bran remained silent, determined to not press her too far too soon, to be patient with her.

“When I returned,” she began slowly, “I saw Littlefinger talking to another lord. He was talking about his plans to overthrow Jon.”

Bran sat up a little straighter, shocked. He had heard about Littlefinger’s scheming, which had causing Sansa to wonder several times whose side he was truly on, but this plan for treason against Jon was different. It confused him that Littlefinger would be so keen to betray the man he had not too long ago pledged his allegiance to, with actions if not with words.

He remembered when Sansa had told him about Littlefinger’s plan for himself, to be on the Iron Throne, with Sansa as his wife. Was that what this was all about? Did he still believe that he could achieve this? The fascination with the Iron Throne Bran could understand, as he had learned about several civil wars that had broken around throughout Westerosi history due to someone coveting the Throne, but he couldn’t believe that Littlefinger still believe that he could seduce Sansa to join him.

Could he?

“All right,” Bran said, still not following. “What has that got to do with Sansa?”

“Littlefinger said that soon Sansa ‘will play her part’ in his plan,” she said hesitantly, clearly watching for his reaction.

“Arya,” Bran sighed, shaking his head slightly. “You didn’t believe him, did you? This is what he _does_. Sansa told me that he has spent his whole life plotting and scheming against others in order to move higher. How do you think he became the guardian to the Lord of the Vale? You can’t believe a word that he says.”

“Listen to me, Bran,” Arya said, raising her hands to prevent any interruptions. “You might be right. This is probably me being too distrustful, and seeing enemies everywhere, even among my own family. But what if I am right? What if Sansa _is_ working against Jon? Let me investigate a little. If I find nothing, then I will tell Sansa myself.”

Bran sighed and pressed his forehead into his hands, shaking his head in disbelief. After hearing Arya’s explanation, Bran wished that it _had_ been down to lingering childhood resentment.

_That would have been easier to deal with_ , he thought, as he looked up at Arya and saw a determined look on her face and he instantly knew that nothing that he could say would change her mind on this.

“So, you want me to lie to Sansa?” he said lowly. “To pretend that I know nothing of this potential treasonous plan by Littlefinger, just in case she _is_ involved?”

“Bran,” Arya began, before he held up a hand to silence her.

Bran was conflicted. He didn’t want to lie to Sansa, and he certainly didn’t believe that she would ally with Littlefinger to depose Jon. He certainly trusted her intentions more than he did Littlefinger’s. But at the same time, he didn’t want to isolate Arya by disregarding her suspicions as, while he didn’t believe them, she _did_ , and was completely convinced in them. Rejecting them now would cause her to retreat back into herself and he didn’t know if they could bring back her trusting side again.

Bran rubbed his face with his hands as he came to a decision.

“All right,” he said, as he straightened up and faced her. “You have a week. No longer. If you haven’t found anything in that time I will tell Sansa myself what you told me. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling slightly. “Thank you, Bran.”

As she got up to leave the room, she bent down and hugged him tightly, clearly showing her gratitude for his faith in her.

“Please don’t kill anyone,” he whispered, only half serious.

As he heard Arya chuckle into his shoulder, Bran heard another knock on the door and turned to see Sansa enter the room.

“Bran,” she said, looking excited. “Lord Howland Reed has arrived.”

Bran’s spirits rose, knowing that he could finally get some confirmation over his vision of Jon and could have the identity of his cousin’s father confirmed, to see if his suspicions were true.

Sansa moved aside and two Stark men entered the room to carry Bran down to the courtyard. As they walked through the stone corridors, Bran thought back to what little he knew about Howland Reed.

His father had always spoke of him with great respect and Bran knew that Reed had been one of his father’s closest confidants, ever since Robert’s Rebellion where they had fought side by side. Bran knew that this was unusual as the crannogmen rarely left the Neck, so Reed must have truly respected his father.

Meera and Jojen hadn’t spoken much about their father but whenever they did their voices were tinged with sorrow and longing, due to the time and distance of their parting for their father. Meera had described her father as, despite the short stature that was common among the crannogmen, a brave, strong and smart man.

After hearing both these stories about the man, Bran was eager to meet Lord Reed.

As they entered the courtyard, Bran saw a small group of men, with several of them carrying standards bearing the black lizard-lion on green sigil of House Reed. Amidst this group of men, Bran’s eyes were drawn to the man at its centre, clearly Howland Reed.

While he was indeed short in stature, Bran could tell that he had once been a very strong and capable man. His face was covered by a large and bushy beard, with its reddish tinge streaked with grey. As Bran was carried closer, the man turned his warm gaze to him and a small smile crossed his face.

“You must be Brandon,” Howland said, when Bran was lowered into a chair in front of him. “I remember when you were born. Your father sent me a letter, and I could sense his pride in his words. It is good to finally meet you.”

As he said this, Howland Reed extended his hand to Bran, who took it. As he shook the man’s hand, Bran heard a cry from behind him.

“Father!” came Meera’s voice.

Bran turned to see her running over towards them, her features illuminated by her happiness at seeing her father after so long. Howland Reed immediately let go of Bran’s hand and opened his arms wide to receive his daughter, as he flung herself into his arms.

Bran smiled widely as he witnessed their reunion. Bran had grown to care for Meera very much and he was pleased to see her so happy, reunited once more with her beloved father.

“It has been far too long since we have seen each other, my child,” Howland Reed muttered, his voice brimming with happiness.

“It has,” replied Meera. “But I wish that Jojen were here.”

As she said this, Meera’s voice broke with emotion and she clung ever tighter to her father, who in turn gripped his daughter tightly in reassurance.

“As do I, child” he said, in a voice thick and cracking with grief. “As do I.”

The courtyard was silent for a moment as the two Reeds clung onto each other, seeking solace with each other as they grieved the loss of their loved one. As he watched them, Bran once more felt a rush of loss for Jojen’s passing, for the loss of his friend.

After a moment, the two broke apart. Meera turned to stand near Bran and smiled weakly at him. Bran could tell, by the redness of her eyes and the wetness of her cheeks, that the loss of Jojen was once more weighing heavy upon her. As she reached him, Bran reached out to grasp hold of her hand, and squeezed it reassuringly. After a moment, she returned the pressure with a grateful nod and smile.

Sansa’s voice caught his attention and he reluctantly tore his gaze away from Meera to see his sister approach Howland Reed.

“It is an honour to welcome you to Winterfell, Lord Reed,” she said, as she bowed her head respectfully. “As I said in my letter to you, my father spoke of you often, with great respect.”

“I thank you for your generosity, my lady,” Howland Reed said, as he nodded respectfully, smiling widely.  “You remind me so much of your mother, Lady Sansa. I only met her a few times, but I see her beauty and grace in you.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Sansa replied, inclining her head lightly. “I welcome you to Winterfell, and I wish to tell you that our full hospitality is yours.”

As Howland nodded his thanks and began to make his way towards the keep, followed by the men who had accompanied him from the Neck, Bran spoke.

“Lord Reed,” he said, causing the man to return his gaze to him. “When you and your men have settled in, and you have fully caught up with Meera, I would like to have a few words with you, if that is all right? Maybe tomorrow in the godswood?”

Howland nodded and smiled.

“It would be an honour, Bran,” the man said, his face became covered with an odd look. “I get the feeling that you have many things to tell me.”

As Bran watched the man enter the Winterfell keep, flanked by Sansa and Meera, he wondered.

_How much did he know?_

*

Bran was standing in a snow covered clearing. There was a strong wind blowing through the trees, that was buffeting his hair all around his face. Bran looked all around him and saw that he was once again in the lands beyond the Wall.

But how?

Almost immediately, Bran realised that this must be one of his dreams, his visions.

Bran began to walk forwards, feeling his feet crunch on the powdery snow. If he didn’t know that this was one of his visions, he would have believed that it was real. As he walked forward, Bran heard a commotion coming from in front of him and rushed towards it, while at the same time knowing, without really knowing why, that this was happening at this moment.

As Bran hurried through the crushing mass of trees on either side of him, the sounds of combat grew. Before long he reached a clearing and what he saw made Bran freeze in his tracks.

In front of him was his uncle Benjen, standing defiantly in the centre of the clearing with his dragonglass blade drawn, surrounded by five White Walkers who had their own, icicle-like blades drawn and steaming in the frozen air.

Bran’s breathing caught in his throat as he watched helplessly as Benjen began to engage them, dodging and weaving around their lunges and slashes, desperately trying to conserve his brittle, precious dragonglass blade.

As a White Walker slashed past him, Benjen thrust his blade into its chest, shattering both his blade and his foe. Bran reached out his hand helplessly to his uncle, knowing in his heart that his time was limited, and that he could do nothing to save him.

However, the remaining White Walkers did not attack. They merely stood stock still in place, surrounding him.

Bran looked around the clearing, his confusion by the White Walker’s actions mirrored by Benjen. Clearly neither of them could understand why the White Walkers did not press their advantage and kill Benjen now, when they could. Benjen was one of the few people who knew of, and believed, the return of the White Walkers, so killing him would be a considerable advantage to their cause.

And yet they did not act.

Bran stood stock still, listening intently, as he looked sadly at his uncle, knowing deep down what he was about to witness and that he could do nothing to stop it.

Before long, Bran heard the sound of footsteps crunching in the thick snow.

Bran turned towards the sound and, upon seeing the cause, felt a crushing wave of fear rush through him as he involuntarily clutched at his arm, where the mark still showed on his flesh.

It was the Night King.

Despite knowing that he was not actually there, Bran was still terrified at the sight of him, knowing through experience that he could still harm Bran. The Night King looked similar to the other White Walkers, with the main difference being the almost crown-like spikes on his head, with his skin that looked pale even amongst the snowy backdrop. However, he walked with such a confidence and impressive air that Bran shivered despite not feeling the cold.

As he walked into the clearing the other White Walkers seemed to cower slightly at his approach, backing away in deference to their leader and commander. The Night King’s blue eyes seemed to burn in his face as he looked towards Benjen, the corners of his thin mouth curling into a cruel smirk, having finally cornered his prey.

As the Night King continued to approach Benjen, Bran called out in desperation, despite knowing that it could do no good, pleading with his uncle to flee, to fight, to do anything to evade his almost inevitable fate. As the Night King came ever closer, he reached towards his back and drew his weapon, a large sickle-like blade.

The Night King came to halt a few feet away from Benjen, his mouth now covered by a grin. Benjen took a run up and tried to attack him, although Bran could see that he was acting purely out of desperation, as Benjen would have known that he could do nothing to him with just his fists.

As Benjen’s fist made contact with the Night King’s face, Bran watched in amazement as his uncle seemed to freeze in place, his confusion mirrored on his uncle’s weathered face.

And then something happened that made Bran’s heart sink.

Benjen’s hand began to blacken further than it already was. First his knuckles, that were still connected to the Night Kings cheek, but then it began to spread down his hand onto his wrist. Benjen began to cry out in pain as he struggled to remove his hand from his foe’s face, to prevent the rapidly spreading frostbite from consuming his hand.

As a sound like ice cracking filled the clearing, Bran looked at the Night King’s face, to see that his smile had widened even further. So much so that…

Bran jolted slightly as he realised what was happening.

_The Night King was laughing._

Mocking Benjen’s futile attempt to save himself, to prevent his death.

Bran watched helplessly, his heart hammering in his fear-constricted chest, as the Night King reached out to grab hold of Benjen’s throat. Bran saw that the skin around his uncle’s throat began to blacken at the touch.

The Night King raised his curved blade and swung it downwards, embedding it into the side of Benjen’s neck. Blood began to flow from the wound, immediately beginning to steam in the icy air. The Night King let go of Benjen, letting the man crumple limply into a heap in the snow, completely unmoving.

Bran looked on in horror. When they had said goodbye for the last time, Bran was sure that his uncle would die, but he could never have imagined that he would actually have to _witness_ his uncle’s demise.

As Bran looked on, he was numbly aware of the Night King turning towards him. Bran followed suit, looking into the creature’s icy eyes. Bran felt his fear reach a fever pitch at the Night King grinned mockingly once more as he turned to look, almost pointedly, at Benjen’s corpse, as if to further Bran’s grief.

Determined to not prolong his own grief any further and to stop the Night King from laying a hand on him once more, who had turned back to him and had started to walk towards him, Bran used all of his willpower to force himself out of his vision, to come back to the present.

Bran awoke, breathing deeply and shaking in his bed, soaked in a cold sweat.

Bran laid still for a moment, feeling the rapid beat of his heart slow in his chest and his flesh warm itself once more under the layer of furs. Almost again his will, he saw the vision over and over again in his mind, watching his uncle die over and over again.

Feeling his grief well up inside him once more, Bran turned his head to his right and saw the bushy hair of Meera next to him. They had spent so many months sleeping next to each other, huddled together to prevent them from perishing from the cold, that it had seemed normal. Even when they had returned to Winterfell, and the threat from the cold had vanished, neither of them had really felt the need to break the routine.

Bran didn’t mind however, as her presence always gave him a sense of comfort, someone to confide in when his visions took their toll.

Like now.

Bran reached out and took hold of Meera’s warm shoulder, feeling her sigh and relax slightly at his touch.

“Meera,” Bran said quietly as he gave her shoulder a little shake, desperately trying to not allow his emotion to spill over just yet. “Meera, please.”

She awoke and turned to him, her eyes only half open.

“Bran?” she said quietly. “What is it?”

“I had a- a vision,” he said.

She immediately sat up, ignoring her tiredness, as a look of concern crossed her face. Bran felt a reassuring hand on his shoulder as she turned to face him fully.

“What was it?” she asked gently.

“Could you get Sansa and Arya for me, please?” Bran asked quietly, looking at her pleadingly. He didn’t like asking her to run all over the castle for him like this, but he didn’t know of any other way. “They will need to hear this too.”

Meera nodded in response, as she threw back the furs and grabbed a cloak, before hurrying from the room.

Bran laid there in the dark waiting for Meera’s return, seeing the pained expression Benjen’s face every time he closed his eyes. Bran bunched his hands into fists on the furs, grabbing handfuls of it and squeezing hard, trying to push the image from his mind, not wanting to see his uncle’s suffering any more.

Soon Bran heard hurrying footsteps in the corridor outside and Meera came back into the room, closely followed by Sansa and Arya who were both looking confused and worried.

“Bran?” Sansa asked, as she sat on the chair next to the bed. “What is it?”

“I saw-” he began, before his emotions took hold of him, constricting his throat, preventing him from speaking.

Bran felt Meera grasp hold of his hand, her fingers interlocking with his own and squeezing his hand reassuringly. Bran took a deep breath, before beginning his explanation again.

“I had a vision,” he said, looking between his sisters. “Of Uncle Benjen.”

Both of them straightened slightly, and Bran felt Meera’s grip tighten slightly on his hand. He turned to look at her, and he saw a flicker of fear in her eyes. Bran recognised that Meera knew him so well, that she could tell by his reaction that something bad had happened.

“What’s happened, Bran?” Arya asked, in a hushed voice.

“He’s… He’s dead. Killed by the Night King.”

An identical look of shock and sadness passed between the sisters. Saying the words aloud caused Bran’s feeling to rise up within him once more. Seeing the look on his face, both Sansa and Arya moved forward together and both engulfed him into their arms, holding him tightly.

Bran returned their grip while at the same time keeping hold of Meera’s hand, feeling more at ease with the warmth of her hand in his, and they all grieved for their uncle together, all secret grudges and suspicions forgotten for the moment in the face of their loss.

*

The following day, Bran sat in the by the heart tree in the Winterfell godswood, looking out over the dark pool of water in front of him.

He was lost in thought, thinking of the hours that he had spent here since his return, revelling in the peace and quiet as he constantly pushed himself to extend and further his control over his abilities. He had used the weirwood tree to have visions, to try to gain knowledge that would be useful in the weeks and months to come.

Unfortunately, he was still struggling to control _what_ exactly he saw. He had often witnessed the Red Wedding again and many other visions that he had already seen.

However, there were some new visions, but he was having trouble working out what there were showing him or, once he knew what he was seeing, _why_ exactly he was seeing them.

He had seen a small, silver haired woman on many occasions. A beautiful woman with purple eyes. Bran had suspected that this was Daenerys Targaryen and his suspicions were confirmed when he saw three differently coloured dragons surrounding her.

He had seen her in many different situations. He saw her difficult upbringing alongside her cruel brother. Her forced marriage to the Dothraki khal, Drogo. Her rise to be the Queen of Meereen, with all of the victories and setbacks along the way.

He had also seen a lot of Jon’s adventures. These visions had begun once he had heard a basic account of them from Sansa. He saw Jon’s faking his defection into the Wildlings. His growing relationship with Ygritte and his respect for the Free Folk grow. He saw Jon’s leadership over the Night’s Watch during the Battle for the Wall and Hardhome. Every time he had a vision of Jon, it would always end with the events of the Tower of Joy, with Lyanna’s words echoing through his mind.

“ _Promise me, Ned. Promise me._ ”

Even stranger was when he would have visions of a man that Bran vaguely remembered as Tyrion Lannister. He witnessed the Battle of Blackwater, and Tyrion’s courageous actions during the battle. He saw his murder of his own father in his escape from King’s Landing. He saw his first meeting with Daenerys, in one of the fighting pits near Meereen. But what he had seen most was of Tyrion releasing Daenery’s dragons from their bonds.

The other two visions that he had had frequently were even harder from him to explain as to _why_ he was seeing them.

The first was of three large shadows looming out of the darkness towards him. He’d soon realised that they were Daenerys’ dragons, when they began to breath fire at a writhing mass of blackness on the ground below them. But as he’d had the vision more often Bran had begun to pay closer attention and had realised that the three dragons were not the only ones in the vison.

Each one had a rider on their back, only a small black shape in his vison, but unmistakeably a person.

The second recurring vision was one that had thrilled and confused Bran in equal measure. Bran had been flying over the snowy ground, seeing a mass of people on the ground below him, feeling the icy, winter wind blowing onto his face. Whenever he had this vision, he always heard the voice of the Three-Eyed Raven, echoing through his mind.

“ _You will never walk again… but you will fly._ ”

“Bran?” came a voice, breaking through Bran’s reverie.

Bran turned towards the speaker and saw Howland Reed approaching him. Bran composed himself, before beckoning the man closer.

“Thank you for meeting me, Lord Reed,” Bran said, as the man took a seat next to him on the hard ground without any hesitation.

“My pleasure, my lord,” he replied, nodding his head. “In fact, I think I owe you my gratitude. I have heard much about you from Meera. About how you looked after each other and kept each other company while you were north of the wall.”

“Thank you, my lord. But Meera and Jojen did far more for me than I did for them. Sometimes I think too much.”

Sensing the meaning behind his words, Howland reached forward and grasped hold of his shoulder.

“You are so like your father,” he said, with a rueful smile. “He too would have accepted undue guilt for something that was not under his power to change. Bran, Jojen’s death was _not_ your fault, and I do not blame you. And if I, s his father, do not blame you for his death, then you should not blame yourself.”

Despite not being fully convened by the man’s words, Bran nodded slightly. Howland returned his nod before straightening up, looking at him expectantly.

“You said that you have heard a lot about me from Meera,” Bran began. “Has she told you of my abilities?”

“Yes,” the man replied, nodding. “They sound a lot like the abilities that Jojen possessed. He had them since he was a child.”

“I wanted to ask you about a vision that I had of you… and my father,” Bran said, seeing a look of curiosity cross Howland’s face. “Lyanna’s death.”

Howland’s curious look turned to one of shock and then into resignation and acceptance.

“Jon,” he stated matter-of-factly.

Bran nodded, causing Howland to lean forward with a groan and rest his forehead into his hands. He stayed that way for a moment before looking back up to Bran.

“What do you wish to know?”

“Who is Jon’s father?” Bran asked immediately.

“Is that not obvious, Bran?” Howland replied, raising an eyebrow expectantly.

“So, Jon’s father _is_ Rhaegar?” Bran said, and Howland nodded in confirmation. “I thought that it was but I also tried to find another explanation for it.”

“If only there was another explanation,” Howland said, with a note of bitterness in his voice. “Then maybe your aunt wouldn’t have died in the way that she did. Alone, so far away from her family.”

“And neither you, nor my father said anything about it? To anyone?”

“No, Bran,” replied Howland. “I assume that you have heard of Robert Baratheon’s hatred of the Targaryen family?”

Bran nodded his assent. Aside from his drunkenness and whoring, Robert’s hatred of House Targaryen was his most well-known trait.

“If he had known that Jon was a Targaryen, particularly the child of Rhaegar, the man he so loathed, and Lyanna, the woman he loved more than any other, he would have slaughtered him in his crib. Just like he had allowed to happen to Rhaegar’s other children. Neither your father nor I wished to see that happen to that innocent child.”

“So…” Bran said, almost thinking aloud. “Jon could have a claim to the Iron Throne, as the sole remained heir of Rhaegar.”

“Could is a very important word here, Bran,” Howland replied, looking serious. “You and I are the only two people who now know of Jon’s true parentage, and neither of us could prove it. No one would believe your visions, and people would see me as a loyal bannerman trumping up a claim for his liege lord to gain more power.

“And, even if we could prove it, would Jon want the Throne? It is a big responsibility, with many duties. You know him better than I. Would he want that?”

“I don’t know,” Bran replied, honestly.

“Even so, Bran. From what I have heard since I arrived in Winterfell, there is another Targaryen back in Westeros. I don’t think that she would take kindly to Jon claiming the throne that she had returned to win back. Do you?”

“No. I doubt that she would.”

The two of them fell into silence, wrapped up in their own thoughts.

Bran didn’t think that, even if he learned the truth of his birth, that Jon would seek the throne. Nor did he think, as Howland said, Daenerys would accept Jon’s claim.

But Bran knew that couldn’t, and wouldn’t, keep this from Jon. He wouldn’t do that to the man that he loved like a brother. A man who _was_ his brother, regardless of who his father was.

_Besides,_ Bran thought as he gazed back into the dark pool in front of him. _Knowing that they are family, might mean that Jon and Daenerys reach an alliance easier._

Hearing the call of a raven, Bran turned his gaze to the sky, and saw the dark wings of the birds as they flew from the maester’s tower, to points unknown. Bran wished that he could send one to Jon, to tell him as soon as he could about this secret, to urge him to return so they could all deal with this revelation together. But he knew that he couldn’t, in case it fell into the wrong hands.

_Hurry back, Jon_ , Bran pleaded, as he thought back to Arya’s growing suspicions. _We need you back here._


	18. Tyrion III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go guys. Sorry about the wait again.  
> I hope you enjoy it.  
> Next up will be Sam.

 

Tyrion

 

Tyrion stood on the balcony of the room of the Painted Table, looking out over the aftermath of the battle. Even now, three days after the battle had ended, there were countless smoking wreckages in the sea around the island, the majority of them being Euron’s longships. Euron’s entire force, with the exception of around ten ships, whose crews had surrendered, had been destroyed.

These surrendering ships had been seized by Yara and, along with the thirty-strong fleet that had arrived with Victarion Greyjoy, had gone a little way into replacing the around ninety ships that their side had lost in the battle. Hearing a loud screech from above him, Tyrion raised his eyes to see the three dragons circling the tower and smiled at the sight.

Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion had been responsible for the destruction of the vast majority of Euron’s fleet and Tyrion knew that without them, their forces would have lost far more of their own men.

Despite the leadership of Randyll Tarly, Grey Worm and Jon Snow, their victory had not come without losses.

In addition to the ships lost, nearly ten thousand Dothraki had been killed, with the majority of them burned by the Lannister catapults. Tyrion knew that they were lucky that the Dothraki had not lost more, as Barbarro’s decision to leave the main battle had meant that the remaining men had been leaderless and unable to follow the plan led by Tarly. Daenerys had not been impressed by this foolish action, and had made Barbarro aware of the fact that if he did something similar again then she would find someone else to lead her Dothraki forces.

The Unsullied had been a lot luckier, and had only lost seven hundred of their number. Tyrion knew that their vastly inferior losses were due to their superior tactics and fighting skill. Thinking back to the battle, he remembered how the Unsullied forces had formed a vast line that, to the best of his knowledge, hadn’t been broken throughout the battle.

There had also been a few hundred Westerosi knights on Dragonstone accompanying their liege lords, who were here to pledge their fealty to Daenerys. Out of these small number two hundred had died, and they had since learned that many of them had faced the heavily-armoured Lannister knights, having knowledge of how they fight.

_Not a perfect victory_ , Tyrion thought as he looked out over the debris of battle. _But a victory nonetheless._

A noise from behind him caught Tyrion’s attention and he turned back to the fellow occupants of the room of the Painted Table. Jon and Davos were huddled together at the northern end of the table, clearly in deep discussion. They were long into the second day in this room, discussing the various aspects of the upcoming Targaryen-Stark alliance, and it seemed like they were close to agreeing to the terms.

As Tyrion made his way back to his seat, and refilled his wine goblet, he thought back to the various discussion that they had had in the past days. Luckily, the discussion had been very cordial, with neither Daenerys nor Jon finding cause for argument.

One of the first things that Jon had demanded was that the North would remain as a free and independent kingdom, as per the wishes of its people. However, as a concession, he conceded that, while the Vale had declared their loyalty to him, they would be given a choice at the end of the fighting as to whether they wished to remain part of the Kingdom of the North or if they wished to pledge their featly to the Iron Throne once more. While Jon had looked a little uncomfortable when Daenerys had suggested this he had ultimately conceded, clealy grateful that Daenerys had been receptive to granting Northern independence.

Then had come the discussions over their troop movements.

This had lasted long into the night on the first day of talks and the majority of the second, with many different plans talked over before being thrown out by either Jon, Randyll Tarly or either of the Greyjoys. Victarion had been particularly helpful in matters of naval strategy, his years of experience clear in the advice that he gave.

Yara had been stoic and much more subdued than usual since the death of Theon, understandably so. Other than that, if she was grieving the loss of her brother it was not plainly clear from her outward actions, as she still commanded her men and advised Daenerys on naval matters with the same efficiency and skill.

But they had finally, just under an hour ago, come to a plan.

Daenerys would head to the North with Jon Snow, to rally his men to help regain the throne, as Jon had advised that his bannermen would be unwilling to go to war to aid her based purely on her word. But they might be more receptive to her personal delivery of the promise of Northern independence, along with Jon’s assurance that it would an alliance of equals. She would be accompanied by Grey Worm, who was well on the way to fully recovering, and his legion of Unsullied, as well as Missandei.

Tyrion meanwhile would travel to Dorne with Varys, Barbarro and the Dothraki, to act as Daenerys’ word and will. They would land at Sunspear and meet with the remainder of Daenery’s forces, who would then be placed under the command of Randyll Tarly, whom Tyrion was glad to have with him. Tyrion’s knowledge of military strategy, while not minimal, was nowhere near the level of Tarly.

They had decided to send the Dothraki to the south, rather that the North with Daenerys, as they knew that the cold would be a factor in limiting the effectiveness of the Dothraki. Dany and Barbarro had decided that the Dothraki would need to get used to the Westerosi cold, before they headed north to meet the White Walker threat.

They would then fight their way north, towards King’s Landing, removing the Westerlands and the Crownlands from Cersei’s control along the way. They would then lay siege to King’s Landing, in anticipation of Daenerys’ arrival with Jon and his forces. It would also, argued Tarly, serve to impact the morale of Cersei’s remaining forces, spending days on end seeing the bulk of her army surrounding the capital.

Once the loyalty of the Northern houses was secured, Jon and Daenerys would then march south, taking the Riverlands and the remainder of the Crownlands along the way. Hopefully, after hearing of the siege of King’s Landing, many houses would surrender to Daenerys, hoping for merciful treatment.

_Her dragons would certainly aid in that,_ Tyrion thought, with a smile.

It was effectively a giant pincer movement, throughout the Kingdoms.

Meanwhile the Greyjoy fleet would remain at Dragonstone and would, led by Victarion and Yara, begin to blockade Blackwater Bay, preventing any further Greyjoy ships arriving from Pyke, to reinforce the small fleet that currently resided in the harbour of King’s Landing. A smaller force would begin to set up supply lines to the White Harbour and Gulltown, mainly of the newly forged dragonglass weapons, which was already being mined from beneath them at this moment.

_It is a solid plan_ ¸ Tyrion mused, as he thought it over again in his head. _Not perfect, but few plans ever are._

Tyrion was not so foolish as to think that nothing could go wrong with their plan, but he was confident that with the leadership of their many experienced warriors, with Jon, Grey Worm and Randyll Tarly being the most prevalent among them, and with the might of Daenerys’ forces, bolstered by her three dragons, that their plan may just work.

Tyrion was pulled from his thoughts when Jon turned back to them and cleared his throat.

“I agree to these terms, Queen Daenerys,” Jon said, smiling slightly.

Tyrion, feeling elated, looked towards Daenerys and saw a wide smile spread across her face, enhancing her already beautiful face. Tyrion nodded triumphantly and drained his goblet in celebration. He had wanted this since Jon had arrived on Dragonstone and was glad that the moment had finally arrived.

“Truly a cause for celebration!” said Tyron joyously, as he refilled his goblet once more, ignoring the resigned sighs of both Jon and Daenerys as they shook their heads at his words.

“Indeed,” echoed Varys, surprising them all. “It would seem that history has been made this day.”

Tyrion couldn’t help but notice the small look that passed between Jon and Daenerys and smiled once more. He had noticed that the two of them were acting far more warmly towards each other of late, particularly after the battle.

“Well,” said Varys, causing all eyes to return to him one more. “As I think we are all aware, talk of alliance is all very well but there are other ways to cement them. Marriage, for instance?

“King Jon,” he continued, turning to face him, whose face had been covered by a look of apprehension and anger. “What do you think?”

Tyrion turned to Jon and was a little shocked by the look on his face. While Varys’ words were undoubtedly blunt and far too direct for Tyrion’s liking, the look of anger on Jon’s face was little surprising.

“Before you suggest it, Lord Varys,” Jon said lowly, “I will not be marrying off any of my siblings to secure this alliance. Sansa has already been married off twice, and neither of those turned out well for her.”

As he said this, Jon turned to look at Tyrion with a look of apology on his face, to which Tyrion responded with a dismissive wave of his hand. He was under no delusions that Sansa was anything other than repulsed by the idea of their marriage. While he had strived to be as kind as he could be while they had been married, he was not hurt to know that the experience had not been pleasing for her.

“Because of that,” Jon continued, returning his gaze to Varys, “I cannot, _will not_ , force her to wed again against her will. Nor will I demand it of Arya or Bran, wherever they are now. If someone has to be wed to secure this alliance, then it shall be me, and there will be no further discussion on the matter.”

Tyrion sat looking at Jon, and was struck by a renewed rush of respect for his friend. He was giving himself up to be wed off to secure this alliance to spare his siblings the same fate. Tyrion had always known that Jon had dearly loved his siblings, he had seen the look of happiness on his face whenever he spoke of them, but this was the first time that he had seen it in action.

_He may not have wanted to be the King in the North_ , thought Tyrion proudly. _But if his actions since he arrived here are anything to go by, no one in the North is more worthy of the title._

However, at this thought, Tyrion began to think about the ramifications of Jon’s statement. If it had been Sansa, Arya or Bran who were to marry then it would simply have been a matter of a marriage to one of Daenerys’ staunchest supporters.

But Jon was the _King in the North_ , and if this alliance was to truly be one of equals, then the only true match would be…

Tyrion turned to look at Daenerys, who was looking at Jon with a look of surprise and happiness on her face, and he could see that she too was impressed by Jon’s actions. However, she too seemed to realise the impact of Jon’s words, and looked at him for a moment, with Jon looking back at her.

“Very well,” she said finally, nodding. “We can discuss the potential marriage match at a later time.”

As Varys opened his mouth once more, there was a knock at the door. The vast wooden door creaked open and a messenger entered, looking timid and like he would rather be anywhere but here. Not wasting any time, he sped across the room towards Varys, gave him a small scroll and raced back out of the room.

All eyes were on Varys as he unfurled the scroll and read it quickly, his quietly curious expression turning to one of shock as he looked towards Tyrion, whose gut flooded with fear and dread.

“What is it?” he demanded, all remnants of his happiness over the alliance vanishing.

“It’s news from the capital,” Varys responded quietly, looking grave. “It appears that Jaime and Bronn attempted to assassinate the Mountain and Qyburn. Their attempt failed. Jaime is imprisoned in the Black Cells and Bronn is… is dead.”

Tyrion’s eyes widened as he felt his heart quicken in his chest. While he was vaguely aware of everyone turning to look at him, he didn’t really register it.

_Jaime in the Black Cells?_ Tyrion thought numbly, thinking back to his own experience within them. _And Bronn is dead?_

Tyrion thought back to his memories of Bronn. Of when they had met, while he was a prisoner of Catelyn Stark. When the sell sword had offered to represent him in his Trial by Combat in the Vale. Of all the times that Tyrion had put one of his schemes into action, bolstered by the confidence that he had Bronn’s skill and support behind them.

Feeling a pang of loss, Tyrion bowed his head.

_Farewell, Bronn_ , Tyrion thought solemnly. _While I may have paid you for your services, there was no doubt that you were, in fact, my friend._

There was a respectful silence in the room, as his companions allowed him to grieve, for which Tyrion was immeasurably grateful. As he grieved for Bronn, his thoughts turned to Jaime, now locked up in the Black Cells. He initially found it strange that Jaime would make such a brazen move against Cersei, as the two of them had been as close as anyone he had ever knew.

_The situation in King’s Landing must be dire for Jaime to consider such a reckless action_ , Tyrion guessed. _What madness has Cersei done now to inspire such an act from our brother?_

After a moment of grief, Tyrion raised his head towards Varys, who was observing at him in a respectful silence.

“Is there any other news?” Tyrion demanded. “Anything to explain why Jaime and Bronn would do something so foolish?”

“It would appear that Jaime didn’t agree with Cersei’s decision to send Euron to attack us,” Varys explained calmly, as he consulted the sheaf of parchment in front of him. “Also, my little birds say that he clashed with Cersei over her latest scheme to gain more men for her army.

“Cersei has conscripted any able-bodied men from her remaining vassals and has demanded that these men be sent to the capital so that they can serve the crown. She has sent them out to various camps throughout the Stormlands to have them trained, seemingly in readiness for invasions from the north, south or from the sea.”

“How many men did she gain from this?” Jon asked, leaning forward with a concerned look on his face. “And which houses supplies the men?”

“The men were mainly supplied from loyal Lannister bannermen from the Westerlands and many houses of the Stormlands, continuing to follow her out of loyalty to her marriage to Robert. I am not certain of the exact number at the present moment, but it will be more than enough to replace the men she lost attacking us here.

“However,” Varys continued, looking towards Daenerys, who too looked worried at this news. “With the alliance that we have forged here, we should still outnumber her forces. In addition, we have the added advantage of your dragons, and over half of the Seven Kingdoms backing us.”

Tyrion wanted to be persuaded by Varys’ words but he couldn’t shake the feelings of doubt. While the combined forces of Daenerys and Jon would now outnumber his sister’s army, he knew all too well that an advantage of numbers didn’t automatically mean victory.

_The Battle of Blackwater is proof of that_ , Tyrion thought. _Stannis had the numbers in that battle and yet he did not win._

Tyrion knew from experience that all it took was a seemingly mad plan that could turn the tide of battle. All it would take is some seemingly mad scheme from either Cersei herself or her maester Qyburn, that could turn the tide against them.

Tyrion hoped that he was wrong.

“If only we could find a way to remove the Stormlands men,” said Tyrion, more thinking aloud that anything. “Their loyalty is tenuous at best, and their bond with the crown is the most easily severed out of Cersei’s allies. If we could strip her of these newly gained men, it could turn the tide back to us.”

“As I said,” said Varys. “Their loyalty is because of her marriage to Robert, and being the mother of the last two Baratheon kings. However, the whispers about Joffrey and Tommen’s legitimacy continue. If we could present an alternative heir to the Baratheon forces, then their loyalty would be severely tested.”

“But Robert has no known surviving children,” Tyrion replied, rubbing his forehead with his hand. “Joffrey saw to that. We do not have the time to scour the kingdoms for any of Robert’s remaining bastards.”

“We won’t need to,” said Davos confidently. “I know just the person.”

There was a stunned silence as everyone turned to Davos, with mixed expressions of shock and relief.

“His name is Gendry,” continued Davos calmly. “And, to the best of my knowledge, he is Robert’s oldest surviving bastard.”

Tyrion grinned widely, hardly daring to believe their luck. If this man was who Davos claimed him to be, then they might just have a chance to deprive Cersei of a large part of her army.

“How do you know about this, Ser Davos?” asked Dany curiously.

At this, Davos’ face darkened with anger, causing Tyrion’s wide smile to fade slightly.

“I met the boy when he was brought here by Stannis’ priestess, Melisandre.”

At the mention of the woman, Tyrion saw Jon shift awkwardly in his chair. Tyrion knew that his friend must be a little conflicted, as he would be grateful that she resurrected him, but, at the same time, Tyrion also knew that Jon’s honourable nature meant that he would not forgive the woman for all the vile deeds that she had committed in the name of her Lord of Light.

“She had convinced Stannis to sacrifice the boy to give Stannis the power to crush his enemies and win the Iron Throne. I may have respected the man, and followed him into war without a second thought, but I could not follow him in this. I freed Gendry and gave him a ship to sail away from the island, to escape his fate.”

“And where is the boy now?” asked Tyrion, trying to keep the mounting excitement from his voice.

“I do not know exactly,” replied Davos, lowering Tyrion’s spirits slightly. “But I believe that he was heading back to King’s Landing, the place where he grew up and knew best.”

“Why would he return to King’s Landing?” Jon asked, looking puzzled. “Cersei would have his head in an instant.”

“The Gold Cloaks do not know his face. They have known my name and been searching for me for over twenty years, and yet I have been to King’s Landing dozens of times without ever being recognised by the City Watch.”

“An honourable act all the same, Ser Davos,” said Tyrion, raising his goblet in a toast to the man. “With that sense of honour, I would wager that you would make a good Northerner.”

Despite Jon silently nodding in assent beside him, Davos smiled sadly before shaking his head slightly.

“I thank you, Lord Tyrion,” he said. “But I have done plenty of dishonourable things in my lifetime.”

Before Tyrion could begin to understand the man cryptic confession, Varys continued.

“That is all very well, Ser Davos,” replied Varys politely. “But this was a couple of years ago. Nobody knows if Gendry is still in King’s Landing, or even still alive.”

“But if anyone could find out, it is you, Lord Varys,” replied Dany, turning to the man. “Send word to your little birds, to see if Gendry still resides within the city.”

“Of course, my Queen,” Varys said humbly, bowing his head.

Tyrion reached out and picked up his wine goblet, feeling a little more confident know that they had something resembling a plan to deal with Cersei. As he raised his goblet to his lips, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jon and Davos share a conspiratorial look. As soon as the look passed between them, it vanished but Tyrion was intrigued.

_Just what was Jon planning?_

“Well,” said Dany, as she rose to her feet and turned to look at Jon. “I think we should set sail for the North in the next few days, Jon. Do you agree?”

“I do, Your Grace,” replied Jon, as he too rose to his feet. “I also offer you the hospitality of my ship _._ It will give us a chance to converse some more and to plan the coming battles.”

“I accept your offer, Jon,” she said, smiling. “Thank you.”

Tyrion smirking slightly as he watched the two of them looking at each other, with the warmth in their smiles a far cry from the hostility that they had both shown when Jon had first arrived. Tyrion had noticed that the two of them, Daenerys in particular, seemed to be allowing their gaze to linger on the other a lot more lately, especially since the battle. Tyrion wasn’t even sure the two of them were aware that they were doing it.

Tyrion’s musings were interrupted when Jon and Davos excused themselves, to rest and prepare for their voyage. As Jon reached the door and opened it, Tyrion saw the frail form of Mikken standing on the other side, clearly about to knock to announce his presence. The man had often been seen in Dany’s company since their arrival on Dragonstone, relaying to her his many stories of Rhaegar which she received gratefully, eager for more.

At the sight of Jon, the man began to bow, but they could see that his old and frail build was giving him trouble. Almost immediately Jon reached out and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder.

“It is alright, my friend. You do not need to bow,” Jon said kindly. “I can see that it gives you trouble. Besides, if I am honest, while I may have only been the king for a month by now, the sight of people bowing to me still makes me uncomfortable.”

At this Mikken straightened back up, leaning heavily on his stick, with a grateful look on his face.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” puffed the old man. “I’m not as young as I once was.”

Jon chuckled at the man’s words and Tyrion saw his friend give the old man’s shoulder a reassuring pat.

“Do not worry, my friend,” said Jon, as he passed by the man and left the room with Davos.

Mikken watched Jon go with an odd expression on his face, a mixture of curiosity and confusion.

“What is it, Mikken?” asked Dany, looking equally curious about Mikken’s actions.

The old man walked over the nearest chair and sat down heavily in it, clearly tired by the exertion of climbing the staircase all the way to the top of the Stone Drum.

“There is something about the Northern King,” Mikken explained slowly. “His voice, the ways he speaks to people, the way he acts with people around him. It reminds me of your brother.”

*

A few days later, they were preparing to leave Dragonstone.

The Greyjoy fleet, bolstered the considerable might of the Redwayne fleet as well as the remaining slaver ships, were split into two, with their destinations White Harbour and Sunspear.

While Tyrion was still confident in their plan, he couldn’t deny that he was a little concerned about going to Dorne. As a Lannister, he doubted that he would be received very warmly there by the Sand Snakes, even if he was on the same side as them now.

Tyrion stood on a hill in the centre of the island, feeling the wind blowing around him, making his cloak billow around him. He was stood alongside Dany, Varys, Pylos, Missandei and a now fully recovered Grey Worm. They were waiting for Jon and his men to arrive so they could all say their farewells before they headed to the ships.

From their vantage point they could see Jon and the towering, red-haired form of Tormund standing on the beach, near a small group of men preparing to set off. Tyrion could just about recognise the form of Davos among the group, which caused him to remember back to the look that Jon had shared with his advisor a few days before.

_Where is Jon sending Davos?_ Tyrion wondered, as he watched Davos set off and Jon make his way towards them. _Is it something to do with Gendry? Or something else entirely?_

Before long Jon and Tormund reached the top of the hill and Tyrion could examine the Wildling closer. The man now had a long scar reaching from his ear all the way to the corner of his mouth, carving through the tangled mass of his beard. The wound hadn’t yet fully healed but the man had demanded that the bandages be removed, so now they could see the stitching that Pylos had used to bind the wound together. His ear had also been split in half by the slash, so that too was stitched back together.

While the sight of the wound had caused many people look at him with a mixture of pity and disgust, Tormund had merely laughed when he had first seen it, impressed by the scar that he would soon be sporting. Tyrion and Jon had both laughed at this, both completely amazed by the seeming madness of that statement.

The two of them stopped in front of them, with Jon and Daenerys sharing a smile and a nod. Jon then turned and walked towards Tyrion, with his hand extended. Tyrion took the hand and shook it.

“It was good to see you again, Tyrion,” said Jon earnestly. “I hope to you soon, my friend.”

“As do I, Jon,” replied Tyrion, nodding back at him.

“So, Jon,” Tyrion continued, leaning in and lowering his voice. “Where have you sent Davos?”

Jon merely smiled slightly in response.

“You shall see soon enough,” he said cryptically.

As Jon moved on to bid a cordial farewell to Varys, Tormund took a step forward and grinned down at Tyrion.

“Don’t die out there, half-man,” said Tormund, smiling.

“I don’t plan to,” Tyrion replied, grinning too. “We shall have to have a drink together when we meet again.”

“Aye,” Tormund laughed.

At that moment, an Unsullied hurried over to Grey Worm and spoke frantically into his ear. A small smile broke over the man’s face as he turned to look behind the Unsullied, but what he was seeing was still below the crest of the hill, and out of the rest of their view.

“Queen Daenerys,” said Grey Worm, still smiling. “This man wishes to see you.”

As the newcomer walked to the top of the hill into view, Tyrion burst into a wide smile at the sight of him.

It was Jorah Mormont.

Tyrion turned to Daenerys and saw that she was beaming with happiness. Jorah walked towards her and instantly went down on one knee before her and bowed his head.

“My Queen,” he said gruffly, the tiredness from his journey evident in his voice.

“Welcome back, Ser Jorah,” said Dany, her voice brimming with her happiness as he motioned for his to rise to his feet. “It is good to see you once more. Were you successful in curing yourself of your greyscale?”

“I was, my Queen,” Jorah replied, nodding. “And I have returned to your side, as you commanded.”

Dany nodded her appreciation at his words, smiling widely.

“I’m glad you are back, Ser Jorah,” Dany said softly. “It wouldn’t feel right taking my home back without you here with me.

“Ser Jorah, I name you the Lord Commander of the Queensguard.”

Tyrion saw the man’s eyes widen in surprise at Dany’s words, before he bent the knee to her once.

“Thank you, my Queen,” he said solemnly. “You honour me. I hope to be worthy of the faith that you are placing in me.”

As Jorah rose to his feet once more, Tyrion walked forward and offered his hand to him. When he reached him, Tyrion saw that his left arm was covered in a long, skin tight leather glove.

“It is good to see you return, Ser Jorah,” Tyrion said, returning the Northerner’s smile. “And I am glad to hear that you are cured.”

Jorah followed Tyrion’s gaze to the long glove, and immediately covered his left wrist, in what seemed to be a reflex action.

“All of the best maesters at the Citadel have claimed that I am cured, and the spread of the greyscale has stopped,” Jorah explained. “But it is easier to believe if I wear the glove, to prevent even the slightest chance that it could still spread and infect others.”

Tyrion felt a rush of pity for the man. He couldn’t imagine what it must have felt like, having to be constantly aware of his surroundings to not accidently touch someone and infect them too, to almost be a pariah.

“Ser Jorah,” said Jon, as he too walked forward and offered his hand to his fellow Northerner. “It is good to finally meet you. I heard about you from your father, Jeor.”

“I am well aware, Your Grace,” responded Jorah, as he firmly grasped Jon’s hand. “I heard about your time at the Night’s Watch from your friend Samwell Tarly. He was at the Citadel when I arrived.”

Tyrion saw Jon’s face break into a wide smile, his relief at the news of his friend evident.

“It is good to hear that Sam has arrived there safely,” said Jon. “Thank you, Ser Jorah.”

Jorah nodded back at him in response, while at the same time fumbling with the leather satchel that he had over his shoulder.

“Sam has been busy,” he said, as he removed a stack of parchment from the satchel. “He has been scouring the Citadel library for days for knowledge about the White Walkers. This is all he has found.

“These are mainly recipes, I believe,” Jorah continued, as Jon took the parchment from him. “On how to forge weapons out of dragonglass but also, more importantly, how to forge new Valyrian steel swords.”

Tyrion’s heart began to race, even though he was half-convinced that he must have misheard.

“Valyrian blades?” Tyrion questioned. “But those secrets were lost in the Doom of Valyria.”

“Not all,” Jorah said, pointing towards the parchment that Jon was reading, with a look of surprise on his face.

Jon looked up and caught Tyrion’s eye and nodded firmly, confirming it.

“How are they made?” Tyrion demanded excitedly, as he hurried over to Jon.

“From what I can see,” Jon said slowly, as re-read Sam’s notes. “It seems that the key ingredient in forging the blades is dragon fire.”

At this, all eyes turned to Dany’s dragons, who were all flying high above, eager to be off. Tyrion reached out and took the parchment from Jon. He read the notes quickly and, after deciphering the unfamiliar hand, he began to realise the complexities of forging the blades.

“Who could forge these blades then? Tormund demanded gruffly.

“Tobho Mott,” said Tyrion, looking up from the parchment to see everyone looking at him. “He is a Qohorik armourer, the best in King’s Landing. I know that he can rework Valyrian blades, as he melted down Ice into two smaller blades, and I imagine that with this recipe that he will be able to forge some more.”

As he finished, Tyrion turned to Jon and saw a stony look on his face, as he looked out to sea. Tyrion knew that the mention of the fate of Ice, the ancestral blade of House Stark, would have pained Jon to hear, but Mott was probably the only man in the kingdoms who could perform the feat of forging such blades, and they would need his aid.

“So,” said Daenerys slowly. “If this Mott still resides in King’s Landing, then we have yet another reason to take the city.”

There was murmuring of assent from the those assembled, as Tyrion looked down once more at the notes in his hand.

“There is something else that I will need to tell you, King Jon,” Jorah said ambiguously. “As well as Queen Daenerys, but I think that it should wait until we have some privacy as the less people that know about this, for the time being, the better.”

Tyrion looked between Jorah and the two monarchs, who were both looking as lost and curious as he felt. Tyrion wondered what news that Jorah could have found at the Citadel that would affect both of them so much that they, and _only_ they, could know about it.

“Before we leave,” said Jon suddenly, as he unfastened his sword belt. “I believe that this is yours, Ser Jorah.”

Jon held out Longclaw to Jorah, the white wolf pommel extended towards him. Jorah looked surprised for a moment, looking between the blade and Jon, but then he smiled and shook his head.

“Thank you, King Jon,” Jorah said. “But I cannot accept. My father gave you that sword for saving his life. That gives you more right to it that I.”

“But Longclaw is the blade of House Mormont,” Jon said, looking confused.

“It _was_ ,” corrected Jorah. “Now it is the Stark blade. Besides, even if I deserved to have the blade, I would still refuse to take it from you, as I too owe you a debt, for saving my father’s life.”

Jon looked at Jorah for a moment, before nodding and replacing the sword back at his hip.

Tyrion shook his head slightly, marvelling at Jon’s sense of honour once more. Despite knowing that the sword in his possession could kill White Walkers and that, as the King in the North, he could claim the sword as his own anyway, Jon still tried to give it away, to the man that he believed deserved to own it.

“If I may ask, Your Grace?” Jorah said, watching Jon. “What _has_ become of House Mormont in my absence?”

At Jorah’s words, Jon’s face split into a wide smile.

“You have no need to worry about that, Ser Jorah,” he said, continuing to smile. “House Mormont is now led by your cousin Lyanna and, while she is only young, she is far fiercer than many other lords who have pledged their fealty to me.

“Despite the size of your house she pledged all of her men to aid my sister and I in retaking Winterfell. Soon after, she was the first to pledge her loyalty to me as the king. I wouldn’t be the King in the North without her help.”

Jorah smiled and nodded his thanks to Jon for the news, and Tyrion realised that this was probably the only news that he had had of his family since he had left Westeros, other than the news of his father’s death.

“You will see her soon, Jorah,” Dany said kindly, stepping forward. “We are heading to the North with Jon to rally his men. We will then march south to take King’s Landing.

“Pylos” she said, as she turned to face him. “We will take the Valyrian steel recipe with us but I would like you to take the recipes for crafting the dragonglass. Make sure that the craftsmen and miners know the best way to craft such weapons. I have a feeling that we shall be needing them soon.”

As Pylos took the parchment, Tyrion saw the look that passed between Jon and Daenerys, with Jon looking relieved and grateful that she seemed to be taking his warnings seriously.

“As you command, my Queen,” Pylos said, as he looked through Sam’s notes. “I will make sure of it.”

At this everyone’s attention was caught by two loud screeches and thuds from behind them. He turned to see Viserion and Rhaegal had both landed on the hill as well. Viserion made his way towards him, while Rhaegal move toward Dany and Jon.

As the pale dragon came to stop in front of him and looked at him almost sadly with his golden eyes, Tyrion felt a rush of sadness, knowing that he would dearly miss the dragon, having grown quite fond of him.

“Goodbye, my friend,” Tyrion said as he reached out to pat the dragon’s warm scales.

Viserion closed his eyes at Tyrion’s touch and lowered his head further to allow Tyrion to reach better. Tyrion looked towards the dragon’s left wing, and saw that his wounds from the battle were healing well, and he had already regained most of his flying mobility.

As he bid goodbye to the dragon, Tyrion looked over to the large, green form of Rhaegal as he allowed Jon and Dany to pet him. Tyrion was surprised to see that Rhaegal was now as affectionate with Jon as he was with Daenerys.

The more that Tyrion had thought on it, the more it had made sense that Jon’s mother, whoever and wherever she was, had Valyrian blood. His growing bond with Rhaegal was proof of that. However, there was no clues to her identity from Jon’s appearance as, frustratingly for Tyrion, he looked extremely similar to his father. But that didn’t stop the questions from raging through his head.

_How and where did Eddard Stark meet a Valyrian woman in the Rebellion? Or was she fully Valyrian? Or did she just have some Valyrian blood in her from generations past?_

However, Tyrion’s thoughts were interrupted when Viserion and Rhaegal took to the skies once more, eager to be off. Jon walked forward and shook Tyrion’s hand once more.

“Don’t die,” he said seriously.

“Nor you, Snow,” Tyrion replied, equally intently.

At this Jon nodded once more before turning and beginning to walk towards the northern shore of the island, where the smaller of the two fleets was waiting.

Dany bent down and pressed a small kiss to his cheek.

“Be careful, please,” she said, concerned, as she looked between Tyrion and Varys, “Both of you. Hopefully our plan will work.”

“Of course, my Queen,” Tyrion replied, bowing his head. “We shall see you at King’s Landing.”

Dany nodded in response, before turning to follow Jon and Tormund. Jorah nodded solemnly towards Tyrion, wordlessly wishing them luck in their mission. Tyrion returned the gesture and Jorah turned away, falling into step at Dany’s side.

Grey Worm and Missandei bid them good luck and farewell before they too left, ready to begin the journey northwards. Tyrion watched them go, with Varys at his side. Tyrion watched until they had boarded onto Jon’s galley, _The Wolf of the Sea_ , a large vessel with its white wolf figurehead.

_Good luck, my friends,_ Tyrion thought as he looked on. _I hope to see you all safe and sound soon enough._

Tyrion felt Varys’ hand on his shoulder.

“Come, my friend,” he said quietly. “It is time we were leaving too.”

Tyrion nodded and turned his gaze from the northern fleet to look at the southern fleet. This one was far larger, in order to carry the bulk of the remaining Dothraki forces.

_Well_ , Tyrion thought as they made their way to the southern shore, still littered with battle debris. _It is time to be on our way._


	19. Sam III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. Sorry for the long wait for a bit of a shorter chapter. However, this is my last week at my placement so, unless things change, I will soon have a bit more time to write.  
> Thanks for understanding guys, and I hope you enjoy the chapter.  
> Next up will be Arya. It will probably be up at some point over the weekend.

 

Sam

 

Sam sat at his usual table, bent once more over yet another thick and dusty tome. It had been over a week since Jorah Mormont had left the Citadel, and Sam had fallen back into his usual routine, of reading every book within reach for hours upon end.

However, there was a nagging feeling in Sam’s gut that had gotten stronger over the last week.

Sam was beginning to think that he might have exhausted the knowledge that the library could tell him about the White Walkers. He had read a countless number of books in the weeks since he had arrived, and he was finding it increasingly difficult to find any new books that might help him and, once he did, none of them had any relevant information.

Sam finished the book in front of him and snapped it shut in frustration. Pushing the book away from him, Sam leaned back in his chair and looked out of the window, watching the sunset. He had been at the chair for a few hours at this point, and was about to get up to stretch his legs when he heard shuffling footsteps moving towards him.

Sam turned to see Archmaester Willem moving towards him, looking strangely grave. Sam immediately got out of his seat and offered it to the elderly maester, who accepted it with a grateful nod. Sam hurried off to find another chair for himself, wondering what had happened to cause Willem to look so serious.

As Sam sat down next to him, the man turned to Sam.

“Samwell,” he began slowly. “We have received word from Dragonstone. Queen Cersei Lannister’s forces attacked the island and have fought with the forces of Daenerys Targaryen.”

Sam’s breathing quickened, feeling a rush of fear for Jon, wondering if he was still on Dragonstone.

“And, Jon Snow?” Sam asked desperately. “Was he still on the island?”

“Yes, but from what we have heard, the King in the North is not among the dead.”

Sam exhaled deeply, relief and happiness flooding through him. However, this only lasted for a moment, once Sam realised the meaning for Willem’s grave manner.

“How many _did_ die?” he asked cautiously.

“Thousands.”

The word hung between them for a moment, leaving an eerie blanket of silence in its wake. Sam pondered for a moment, thinking of all the lives that had been lost in the battle. He looked over at Willem and saw that the man was looking off into nothing, lost in his thoughts.

After a moment, Willem seemed to collect his thoughts and turned back towards Sam, and looked down at the cover of the book that he had been reading. A look of understanding crossed his face.

“I have noticed that you are very interested in learning about the White Walkers, Samwell,” Willem said, nodding towards the leather-bound tome. “A strange field of study for someone wishing to enter the Citadel.

“Unless of course,” the man continued, looking at Sam knowingly. “You were not planning to study here after all.”

Feeling a little surprised, Sam met the old man’s eye and saw that he had a look of amusement and recognition on his face. When he felt a rush of guilt, Sam felt eerily like a young child who had been caught misbehaving.

“You are right, maester,” Sam admitted. “I had been planning to become a maester but the more I stay here, the more I realise that I would be of more use in the North, with all that I have learnt.”

“About the White Walkers?” Willem said, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.

“Yes, maester,” Sam said determinedly. “I know that it sounds crazy, but they are real. All the stories that we have heard all our lives are true. I have seen them.”

Willem leaned forward slightly, regarding Sam with a strange look on his face. Sam was a little nervous, wondering if the man would believe.

_I probably wouldn’t, if I had heard that story,_ Sam thought, feeling a little frustrated with himself for not explaining more.

The silence stretched on for a few more moments with Willem still looking intently at him, as if trying to see the truth on his face. Unable to bear the silence any more, Sam opened his mouth to continue explaining, to try and let Willem understand the horrors that were coming for them. However, Willem raised his hand to silence Sam before he had even begun.

“You said that you have seen them?” Willem questioned. “How? What happened?”

Sam exhaled, feeling relieved that Willem was willing to give him an opportunity to explain, and not dismiss his warnings immediately.

“The Lord Commander, Jeor Mormont, was attacked by a wight, a corpse that had been resurrected by the White Walkers to do their bidding. After my friend, Jon Snow saved the Commander, we headed north to find out about the rising dead, as well as the growing Wildling threat.

“Things went badly,” Sam said gravely, lowering his head. “We were attacked at the Fist of the First Men. The Walkers and their wights attacked us, riding their dead horses. Only sixty of us survived to begin the trek back south towards the Wall.

“We stopped at Craster’s Keep on the way back. Craster was Gilly’s father. He had been marrying his daughters for years. Any further daughters that he’d had, he would marry them to get himself more daughters. But any sons were sacrificed to the White Walkers, as an offering. When we arrived back, Gilly gave birth to Little Sam, and I helped them both to escape, so that he wouldn’t be sacrificed.”

Willem nodded his agreement, looking both proud and surprised by the determination in Sam’s voice. Sam closed his eyes for a moment as he remembered what happened next. The calling of the ravens that was suddenly silenced. The slow march of the Walker towards them. The way it had shattered his blade just by grasping it in the palm of its hand.

Steeling himself, Sam opened his eyes to continue his story.

“We managed to escape from Craster, but we were attacked by a White Walker on the way back to the Wall. It had come for the baby. I tried to protect them, but it shattered my blade and threw me aside like I was nothing. I was desperate and stabbed it in the back with a dragonglass dagger that I had found at the Fist.

“Luckily, dragonglass is one of the few things that can kill the White Walkers,” Sam finished, as he remembered the way that White Walker had cracked and then shattered, blowing away in the wind.

Sam looked at Willem, trying the read the expression of his face, to see if he believed him.

“What else can?” Willem asked, his tone and the look on his face unreadable.

“Valyrian steel,” Sam said. “Jon killed another at Hardhome, with his Valyrian blade, Longclaw. While I searching the library, I have found a manuscript telling of the process of making Valyrian blades, as well as another that explains different mining and crafting techniques for dragonglass. I have made copies of them and sent them with Jorah to Dragonstone.”

Willem nodded his understanding before getting to his feet and walking away. Sam watched him go with confusion.

_Did he believe me?_ Sam wondered, as he saw Willem head over to a small bookcase. _Or does he think this story is just that? A story._

Willem pulled a large red leather-bound book from the bookcase and headed back to Sam. He placed the book down in front of Sam as he retook his own seat.

“I do not know much about the White Walkers or how to kill them,” Willem said. “But I have heard the stories, just as you have, of their supposed last attack. Of Azor Ahai, who supposedly defeated them.”

Willem reached over and opened the book. He began rifling through the dusty pages, clearly looking for something in particular. After a moment, he clearly found it and pushed the book towards Sam, at the same time pointing to a particular passage, which Sam began to read.

_"There will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour, a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him."_

Sam finished the passage and looked back to Willem, hoping that he would explain more.

“Azor Ahai’s reincarnation is believed, by many different religions, of being the person known as the Prince That Was Promised.”

Sam jolted upright, shocked by this. He remembered Edd’s letter, where he spoken of Jon’s resurrection and the priestess referring to him as the Prince That Was Promised.

_Coincidence?_

As Sam looked back to the tome, to re-read the passage, he felt Willem grasp his forearm firmly.

“Samwell,” Willem said, almost sternly. “Do not put much stock in prophecies. This one in particular was made thousands of years after Azor Ahai supposedly lived.”

“Some of it sounds familiar though, doesn’t it?” Sam remarked.

_‘There will come a day after a long summer.’_

They _had_ just finished one of the longest summers in recent memory.

‘ _when the stars bleed’._

Sam was reminded of the red comet that had trailed across the sky a few years ago.

‘ _the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world.’_

_Well that is clearly the White Walkers_ , Sam thought.

“Samwell!” snapped Willem, shocking Sam with the bite in his voice. “It is dangerous to believe every word of prophecies. They are intentionally vague. So, that when certain events happen, thousands of years after the prophecy was made, the believers can say that the prophecy came true, no matter how tenuous the similarities.

“Sam, think about it logically,” Willem said, pointing to the passage again. “This states that this hero will wield a flaming sword, Lightbringer, to push back the forces of darkness. That is _exactly_ what the original Azor Ahai did, supposedly. If what you are saying is true, and the White Walkers have returned, then it clearly did not work the first time.

“Why would doing the same action have a different outcome the second time? Surely the Prince That Was Promised, whomever they are, will have to do something different in order to finally defeat the White Walkers.”

Sam nodded in response, realising that Willem had a point. Sam remembered the story of Azor Ahi from the stories he had been told as a child. Of how he had forged a sword over three days and nights and had the used it to kill his beloved wife Nissa Nissa, causing it to become the sword known as Lightbringer.

“So maybe, the Prince That Was Promised won’t have to kill the person that they love in order to make Lightbringer?” Sam said, causing Willem to nod in response.

“If he did at all,” Willem said. “Myths and legends such as this always have a basis of truth to them, but these events supposedly happened thousands of years ago. For all we know, Azor Ahai could simply have defeated the White Walkers in battle and the rest of his legend was built up in the years that followed, with the story being passed on through the generations.

“However, the story may very well be true, Sam,” the maester said, fixing him with a determined stare. “The Prince That Was Promised, Azor Ahai reborn, wielding Lightbringer might well be the way to defeat them. But until you know for sure, do not think of it as the _only_ possible way to defeat them.”

Sam nodded, realising the sense behind the man’s words. If he regarded the prophecy as the _only_ way to defeat the White Walkers, then he might blind himself to a better solution if it came along.

“I didn’t think that you would believe me,” Sam admitted sheepishly. “That is why I did ask you for your aid before.”

Willem chuckled slightly.

“It _is_ an incredibly strange tale, Sam,” Willem said, as he rose once more from his chair.

Sam picked up the book to give it back to him, but Willem raised his hand.

“Keep the book Samwell. I know it is not much, but I cannot give you much else to aid you in your mission.”

“Thank you, Maester Willem. For everything.”

“Think nothing of it,” Willem replied, waving his hand dismissively. “I shall begin the preparations for your journey. Where will you, Gilly and Little Sam be heading?”

Sam considered for a moment. He was tempted to head straight back to the North but, at the same time, he knew that Jon wasn’t there.

And it was Jon that he need to see, to speak to.

For several reasons.

“Dragonstone,” Sam replied. “My friend Jon is there, speaking with Daenerys Targaryen. We shall head there.”

“Very well,” Willem said, turning away.

He walked away for moment, before stopping and turning back to Sam.

“It is a shame that you will not be staying with us, Samwell. I think you would have made a great maester.”

Feeling a swell of pride, Sam nodded his thanks.

“And who knows?” Willem continued, as he began to walk away once more. “Maybe, once this is over, you could return here, and we might finally have a tome in the library containing all you know about the White Walkers.”

As Willem left, Sam remained in his chair, the pride in his chest at Willem’s words growing. The maester clearly had a high opinion of him and his intelligence.

_Now I need to prove it,_ Sam thought, as he picked up the book and went off to find Gilly and to pack. _And help Jon defeat these monsters._

*

A few days later, Sam was standing in Gilly’s room, holding Little Sam as Gilly packed away the last of her things. Sam bit his lip as he watched her, knowing that she would not like what he was about to say.

“Gilly, are you sure you two should come with me?” Sam said, shifting Little Sam slightly. “I want to be with you both, but it is safe here. I don’t want anything to happen to you. Either of you.”

As expected Gilly turned to face him with an annoyed look on her face. She fixed him with a determined look.

“Sam, you promised that we would be together.”

“I know,” Sam said placatingly. “But I don’t want anything to happen to you. I don’t know what I would do if either of you were hurt.”

Gilly’s expression softened at this. She walked over to Sam, smiling warmly. When she reached him, she placed her hands on his cheeks and raised herself on her toes to kiss him gently on the lips.

After a moment, she pulled away and looked at him with affection shining in her eyes, her hands still on his cheeks.

“Whether we are in danger or staying in safety, I want us to do it together, Sam,” she said.

“Together!” Little Sam echoed from Sam’s arms.

Sam looked down in surprise at the beaming boy’s face, looking up at him with happiness. Little Sam didn’t speak that much, so it was a little bit of shock to hear his voice.

But at hearing the little boy’s voice echoing his mother’s words, and feeling the boy reach up to grasp hold of the whiskers on Sam’s chin in his small fist, Sam knew that he couldn’t leave them here while he headed off back to the North. Smiling broadly, Sam leaned down to press a kiss to the top of the boy’s head, while at the same time putting an arm around Gilly’s shoulders.

“Together then,” he said, causing Gilly to beam back at him.

She kissed him once more, before turning to grab hold of their belongings.

As a group, they all left the room and walked back through the corridors, with Sam turning his head this way ad that to take it all in for the last time. While his research in the library had been incredibly frustrating at times, he had enjoyed his time at the Citadel, being surrounded by books and other men of learning.

His meeting with Jorah had also been an experience that Sam was happy had happened. Sam wondered if the man had made it Dragonstone yet, to give Jon and Daenerys his notes about Valyrian steel and dragonglass.

_I will find out soon enough_ , Sam thought, as they entered the courtyard.

Where something was clearly wrong.

There were maesters running in all directions, shouting words that Sam couldn’t hear over the combined voices and sound of running feet. Sam hurried forward toward the nearest of them.

“What is happening?” Sam asked.

“It’s Archmaester Willem,” the man said, pointing towards the building, where Sam knew that Willem had his quarters.

Fear bubbled up in Sam’s gut at these words. Sam turned to see Gilly reaching out to take Little Sam from him.

“Go on, Sam” she urged, as Little Sam settled into his mother’s arms.

Sam turned and hurried towards Willem’s quarters as fast as he could, his feelings of fear and trepidation rising with every step he took.

Before long, Sam entered the old man’s room and saw that his bed was surrounded by various men, with varying length maester’s chains. Sam approached the bed and pushed his way into the circle.

And froze in horror.

Willem was laid on his back, his throat slashed open. The blood from the wound had stained his bed linen and his clothes crimson. His breath catching his throat, Sam looked at the man’s face, and saw a look of fear on the kindly old man’s face.

Sam looked away, feeling grief and horror well up within him.

_Who would do this?_ Sam wondered sadly. _Who would kill him?_

As Sam’s thoughts strayed to the vault hidden beneath them, a feeling of realisation and dread overtook him. Sam snapped his eyes back to Willem and looked towards his neck, feeling a little nauseous at the sight of the man’s slit throat, looking for the glint of the chain that he knew should be there.

But there was nothing.

His heart beating ever faster, Sam turned to the assembled maesters.

“Where is the chain that Willem wore?” Sam demanded, only vaguely aware of how loud and panicked his voice was. “The smaller one, with the key on it?”

The men all looked at each other, clearly a little shocked by Sam’s outburst, but Sam didn’t care.

He needed to know.

“He wasn’t wearing one,” one of them replied.

Sam’s eyes widened as he realised why Willem had been killed.

Sam turned and raced back out of the room, nearly knocking Gilly over, who had followed him. Sam blurted out an apology as he continued to race towards the vaults. As he hurried across the courtyard, he was vaguely aware of several sets of eyes following him.

Before long Sam descended into the bowels of the Citadel, feeling the chill and darkness coming to welcome him. He raced past the countless wrought-iron doors, that hid who knows what horrible secrets, towards the end of the corridors, where the guards were still standing,

The sight reassured Sam a little, knowing that whoever had stolen the key might not have made it into the room yet.

However, when Sam reached the men he saw that all was not as it seemed.

The men were dead.

They had been propped up against the wall in such a way as to look, from a distance, as though nothing was amiss.

Sam walked past them, trying to ignore the fact that he was now surrounded by corpses, as he pushed the door.

It swung open immediately to reveal the room that he had sat in with Willem and Jorah not too long ago.

Sam entered the gloomy room and saw that it didn’t look like anything had been disturbed. Nothing had been discarded in a search, although Sam hadn’t really expected it to be, as he was sure what they had been looking for.

Sam walked over to the drawer, where the declaration of Rhaegar and Lyanna’s wedding was kept. Breathing deeply, he pulled the drawer, praying to the gods that it would remain locked, even though it was hopeless.

The drawer open and Sam froze once more.

“Oh, that is not good,” Sam muttered under his breath.

The scroll was gone.


	20. Arya III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to lie, guys, I struggled a little with this chapter. My initial plan for it just didn't work while writing, so I had to rewrite most of it, which is why is it up a day or so later than I had said that it would be. However, I am much happier with this version, so I hope you guys are too.  
> In other news, my placement had ended so, while I am back to the job hunt, it does mean that I have more free time for writing for the moment. So expect the next update (which will be a Jon chapter) to be sometime on Thursday or Friday.

 

Arya

 

It was the dead of night and Arya was perched atop a wall that bordered the Winterfell courtyard, watching her target as he walked across the courtyard, seemingly oblivious to her watching him. Arya had been investigating Littlefinger and his possible alliance with Sansa for days now and knew that, come the morning, the week that Bran had given her to investigate would be up.

And she had found nothing to incriminate her sister.

As the days had passed, and Arya had continued to draw a blank on any possible involvement from Sansa in Littlefinger’s plan, a growing feeling of doubt had begun to plague her.

_Have I made a mistake?_ Arya had asked herself on several occasions. _Have I missed something?_

Arya had replayed her arrival in Winterfell over and over in her mind, looking for any details that she could have missed, something that would absolve Sansa. While Arya had taken it upon herself to investigate her sister, she had hoped and prayed that she was wrong, that Sansa had nothing to do with Littlefinger’s potential treason against their brother.

Arya remembered seeing Littlefinger deep in conversation with a lord, who Arya had since learned was Lord Lyonel Corbray. Arya now knew that Corbray had remained firm in his opposition to Littlefinger’s scheming and had placed his support firmly behind Jon, the man that he had proclaimed as the King in the North.

Arya recalled how Littlefinger had momentarily turned to where she had hidden herself, seemingly shrouded in darkness, before turning back to Lord Corbray, with a smirk on his face. It was only then that he had revealed to Corbray that Sansa was supposedly working with him to oust Jon.

_Had he seen me hiding there?_ Arya thought, as she continued to watch the dark form of Littlefinger striding across the Winterfell courtyard. _Was his declaration of Sansa’s support exactly what Bran said? A trick to turn us against each other?_

Arya had hoped that it was, as while she had no doubts that she had the skill to do so, Arya wasn’t sure that she had it in her to kill her own sister.

_Father would never forgive me_ , Arya thought, as she turned her attention momentarily from Littlefinger to look at the swaying tops of the trees in the godswood.

Arya had thought a lot about her father, particularly since she had arrived back in Winterfell, and had seen the godswood for the first time in years. She remembered how her father would spend hours at a time sat in front of the great heart tree in the centre of the godswood, often cleaning his blade as he prayed to the Old Gods.

Arya had wondered what her father would make of the decisions that she had made in the last few years. She knew that he more than likely would not approve of the methods that she had employed to gain her revenge, in particular the events of the Twins.

As Arya looked down at Needle, at its place at her hip, she remembered her father words, spoken to her so long ago.

“ _Try not to stab your sister with it._ ”

With a sinking feeling in her gut, Arya hoped that she would not have to.

Arya’s attention returned to Littlefinger and she saw that he was talking to someone, hidden away in a dark corner of the courtyard. Making sure to remain low and shrouded in darkness at all time, Arya made her way closer, to see who he was speaking with.

Despite not finding any proof about Sansa’s involvement, Arya had found out several of Littlefinger’s contacts within the walls of Winterfell. One of them was Ser Lyn Corbray, Lord Lionel’s brother and heir. Despite his outspoken hatred for Littlefinger, and his loud and frequent declarations that Jon was the true king, Arya had seen the two of them conspiring, with fat pouches of gold being passed to the knight.

A few nights later, Arya had taken an opportunity.

Ser Lyn had spent the majority of the evening in the main hall, drinking endless tankards of ale while making countless toasts to Jon and the Starks, in one form or the other. Arya had been watching him and had seen him speaking with several other of Littlefinger’s staunchest opponents, whose hatred of Baelish was well known.

_He’s clearly Baelish’s spy_ , Arya had thought, watching from her seat.

As the evening drew on, and Ser Lyn became ever drunker, Arya excused herself and had made her preparations.

It had been easy in the end.

He had been staggering towards his quarters, taking a route that took him past several staircases. All Arya to do was wait until he passed the one with the longest drop and give him a sharp shove, his neck breaking on impact with one of the stone steps during the fall.

He had been found a few hours later and, after his display in the hall earlier that evening, everyone had assumed that it had been a drunken accident.

Everyone except for Petyr Baelish.

Although Arya suspected that she might be imagining it, she believed that Littlefinger was regarding her strangely since Corbray’s death, as though he suspected her involvement. However, Arya knew that he would have no way of proving it, as she had made sure that she had not been followed by either him or any of his underlings.

Arya came to halt and lowered herself down onto one knee. He body was hidden by a low wall, with only her eyes and the top of her head visible over the top of it. However, she also flattened herself against the wall to her left which, while it limited her line of sight, it also reduced the risk that Littlefinger, or the person that he was meeting, would see her.

Arya peered over at the two dark figures and recognised the other man almost instantly. His name was Robert Stone, a bastard boy from the Vale. From the little that Arya had been able to find out about him, mostly overheard from between Sansa and Bran, he had been working as a servant boy at the Eyrie when Littlefinger had taken an interest in him and had taken the boy under his wing. It was also rumoured that he was one of Lionel Corbray’s bastards, part of Littlefinger’s coercion of the lord. He was now Littlefinger’s messenger, carrying notes all over the North and beyond.

Their whispered conversation drifted over to Arya’s hiding place, although she had to strain her ears to hear every word.

“It is done, my lord,” Robert was muttered, looking around nervously, as though he could feel eyes upon him. “The scroll will be in your hands within the week. I have ordered it to be sent with the fastest rider from Oldtown, as I thought that sending it by raven would be too risky.”

“You have done well, Robert,” Littlefinger said, placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder and speaking with such a proud tone of voice that he almost seemed fatherly.

However, Arya suspected that the only reason for Littlefinger’s action were simply to maintain the loyalty that the boy had for him. A rush of loathing welled up within her as she watched the Vale boy being manipulated by Baelish and it took all of her restraint not to race over and plunge Needle into the man’s smug face.

However, before Arya could act on the impulse, Littlefinger and Robert Stone turned and left. Arya let them leave unfollowed, knowing from the direction that they were heading that they were going back to their chambers and that she would not learn anything else tonight.

Arya got to her feet and began to walk. However, she did not begin to make her way to her chambers, but instead she began to walk towards the godswood.

As Arya walked through the dark trees, the atmosphere felt familiar and yet completely unknown. Arya had not been here since she had arrived back at Winterfell. While she had not completely abandoned her faith in the Old Gods during her time away, it had certainly been shaken by the events that had befallen the Stark family.

_Father, Robb and Rickon all followed the Old Gods_ , Arya thought, as she made her way towards the heart tree. _And Mother had followed the Seven. But their faith did not stop their deaths._

Arya sat down in front of the heart tree, brought her knees up to her chin and hugged her legs. Memories of her father sitting by this very tree burst into her mind, causing Arya to feel a rush of loss for her father.

_I wish you were here, Father_ , Arya thought desperately, choking back her emotion. _I do not know what to do._

Arya knew that come the morning she would need to tell Sansa what she had learned about Littlefinger. But she could not shake the feeling that Sansa might be involved in some way.

However, now her suspicion was tinged with a feeling of doubt.

_How could she be sure that Sansa would betray Jon like this? Was this just Arya’s distrust of everyone that was tainting her perception of her sister?_

At the thought of Jon, Arya felt a rush of relief, knowing that he would soon return to Winterfell.

A few days ago, they had received a short note from him, declaring that his business in Dragonstone had gone well and that he would soon be returning home. While it had been short and vague, and containing no hint of the outcome of the talks, in case it had fallen into enemy hands, Arya had relished reading the note, recognising her brother’s handwriting immediately. However, despite knowing that he would soon be returning home, Arya felt that Jon had never seemed so far away than now, when she need him the most.

Angry and bitter tears welled up in her eyes and, rather than forcing them away like she had become so accustomed to doing, Arya let them fall. Revelling in the solitude of the godswood, Arya allowed her feelings to rush to the surface; her confusion and indecision washing over her as she struggled with what she should do.

She sat there for several hours until the sun came up, barely feeling the chilly winds as they blew through the trees. When the sun rose, she got to her feet and dried her face, before heading back to the keep.

She knew what she was going to do.

*

A few hours later, Arya was sat in Jon’s study, opposite Bran and Sansa. Bran was looking at her with a look of hesitation on his face, while Sansa was merely looking curious as to why Arya had called this meeting so urgently.

Arya took a deep breath and looked into her sister’s blue eyes, so alike to their mother’s that it caused Arya’s breath to catch in her throat slightly. She was determined to detect any hint of treachery in her sister’s face at the news, although she hoped that there would be none to see.

“What is wrong, Arya?” Sansa asked, sounding and looking concerned.

“It’s about Baelish,” Arya said, registering the look of surprise on Sansa’s face. “He is plotting against Jon.”

To Arya’s surprise, Sansa did not look shocked or outraged by this revelation. There was simply a look of angry resignation on her face, as though she had expected this to happen.

“I had a feeling that he would do something,” she muttered angrily. “What did you find out Arya?”

Arya took a deep breath, before looking her sister in the eye once more.

“When I arrived back at Winterfell that night, I saw Littlefinger speaking with Lord Lyonel Corbray,” Arya explained. “He was trying to convince Corbray to join with him in conspiring against Jon. Corbray refused but he was blackmailed into keeping silent.”

Arya paused for a moment before continuing.

“Littlefinger also claimed that you would ‘play your part’ in his scheme.”

Sansa’s eyes widened in shock and horror at this news, looking disgusted by the suggestion that she would conspire against her brother.

And in that moment, Arya knew the truth.

_Sansa was innocent._

She wasn’t conspiring against their brother. She hadn’t joined with Littlefinger to depose Jon.

Arya felt a crushing wave of guilt rush over her, joined with a feeling of disgust for herself. She had allowed her distrustful feeling to influence her view of her sister, and had allowed Littlefinger to manipulate her into believing her sister was the enemy.

Arya’s hands coiled into fists on the table. In that moment, she had never hated anyone as much as she did Petyr Baelish.

“He claimed I was helping him?” Sansa asked, looking scandalised. “And, you…”

Sansa’s eyes widened again as she looked at Arya, with a look of realisation dawning on her face.

“And you believed him? That is why you have been so cold and distant with me since your return?”

Arya nodded, her guilt rising ever further.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I should have listened to Bran. He warned me about Littlefinger and his scheming. I should have known then that this was just one of his plots.”

Arya looked into her sister’s eyes again.

“I’m sorry.”

Sansa looked at her for a moment before striding around the table and pulling Arya into her arms. Arya wrapped her arms around her sister’s waist and hugged her tightly.

“It’s all right,” Sansa said soothingly, as she pressed a kiss to the top of Arya’s head. “I know better than most what Littlefinger does. He manipulates people into doing what he wants and, right now, he wants us at each other’s throats.

“Arya,” Sansa said, as she crouched down to look into Arya’s face, brushing her hair out of her face. “I do not blame you.”

Arya burst into a wide smile, overwhelmed by her sister’s forgiveness. She had been terrified that Sansa would reject her for her distrust, but this instant understanding and compassion was more than she could have hoped for.

As she nodded her thanks, Arya saw Sansa give her a reassuring smile before placing another kiss to her forehead. Arya turned to see Bran looking at them both with a look of contentment on his face.

“And now,” Sansa said, as she placed her hands on Arya’s shoulders. “Let’s end that man’s schemes.”

Arya turned to look at Sansa, with them both wearing identical looks of determination, and nodded her agreement.

*

A few days later, they put their plan into action.

The three of them had spent hours in Jon’s study, going over and over everything that they knew about Littlefinger’s scheme. Arya told them both of the scroll that Littlefinger and Robert Stone had spoken of and the three of them had speculated about what it could contain, although they all agreed that it must be important for the level of secrecy that had surrounded its travel to the North from Oldtown.

Sansa had ordered that all of the Littlefinger’s incoming letters and messages were to be discretely checked to make sure that they could be aware of when it arrived.

Arya was brought from her thoughts and focused on her present situation.

She was perched high in the heart tree in the godswood, hidden among the red-leaved branches. She looked down to see Sansa standing at the foot of the tree, waiting for Littlefinger.

Sansa had sent a message to Littlefinger for him to meet her alone in the godswood, as she had something to discuss with him. Arya gripped the handle of Needle tightly, ready for any sign that something was wrong so she could intervene to protect Sansa.

They waited there for what seemed like hours, the wind making the branches around Arya creak and sway, until Arya became convinced that he would not show up. Sansa too seemed like she was beginning to doubt that he would arrive. She did not however look up to where she knew Arya was hidden, in case he did arrive.

Just as Arya became sure that he would not turn up, she heard footsteps in the snow, coming towards them. She turned towards the sound and saw the man walking towards Sansa. At the sight of him, Arya had to use all of her self-restraint to not leap from her hiding spot and kill the man where he stood.

But that was not the plan.

He came to a halt next to Sansa and looked at her with polite indifference on his face.

“I must say that this is a surprise, Lady Sansa,” the man said silkily. “The last time that we spoke, you made it very clear what your opinion of me was.”

“Well, as you well know, Lord Baelish,” Sansa replied cryptically. “Things can change.”

Littlefinger smirked at this, before looking around him.

“I see Lady Brienne is not with you.”

“No,” Sansa replied. “I do not think that she would approve of the subject that I wished to speak with you about.”

This got his attention. Littlefinger turned fully to face Sansa and, even from her position high above them, Arya could sense the man’s curiosity.

“Oh? And what would that be?”

Sansa took a step towards him and Arya tightened her grip on Needle, in case he tried to lay a hand on her when she got closer.

“Your plan for the Iron Throne,” Sansa whispered conspiratorially, leaning closer to him. “I have been thinking more about it.”

“Have you?” he replied, not sounding convinced. “And what has prompted this sudden change of heart?”

“I was thinking more about what you said,” Sansa said. “And about how I am regarded in the North. They see me as Eddard Stark’s daughter, and the sister to their king. They do not see the person who helped to defeat the Boltons. They do not see the person who brought the Knights of the Vale to help save the man they have chosen as their king.”

There was a bitterness behind Sansa’s voice that, had she not known that Sansa was purely acting to gain Littlefinger’s confidence, would have worried Arya. However, despite the convincing performance that Sansa was giving, Arya could see that it was not having much of an impact on the intended target.

“All of these things, I spoke to you of the last time we talked,” Littlefinger said suspiciously. “And you were dismissive of them then. What has changed?”

Arya closed her eyes, breathing heavily. Their plan was unravelling. Their whole plan relied on Littlefinger believing Sansa’s story, but he wasn’t.

_Come on, Sansa!_ Arya thought desperately. _Do something!_

Sansa took another step closer to Littlefinger and placed a hand on his chest.

“The more I think about it,” she whispered. “The more I realise that you were right. And the more that I see what I want.”

“And what do you want?” he asked in a hushed voice.

“Everything,” Sansa replied.

And then she kissed him.

Arya was so shocked by this that she almost fell out of the tree. While she knew that it was all part of the act, to appeal to the part of Littlefinger that lusted for Sansa, Arya was still baffled by the action.

The remained joined at the lips for several moments, and Arya was enraged to see Baelish’s hands wander to grip at Sansa’s waist. Resisting the urge to cut off the man’s hand for daring to lay it on her sister, Arya bided her time, knowing that Sansa’s actions, while a little unsettling, might have just saved their plan.

Sansa pulled away from Baelish, and gently removed his gripping hand from her hip, while still maintaining the close gap between them.

“I see,” Baelish said, his voice filled with such a tone of triumph that Arya’s rage reached a new pitch. “Then it seems like we are allies once more.”

“Indeed,” Sansa said, as she placed a hand onto his shoulder. “So, what shall we do about my bastard half-brother?”

Arya winced slightly at the harshness of Sansa’s tone when talking about Jon, and memories of their childhood flooded back to her. Memories of when Sansa had been as dismissive of Jon as their mother had been, something that had annoyed Arya even in her young age.

“I have put plans into actions already, my love,” the man whispered, as he grew ever closer to Sansa, clearly drawn in by her display of seeming affection. “I have something coming to Winterfell that will call Jon’s legitimacy into question.”

Arya straightened up slightly in the tree at this.

_This must be the scroll that he was talking about_ , Arya thought, praying that Sansa would press from more answers.

“And what would that be?” Sansa asked, seemingly reading Arya’s mind.

“As you know, I have spies all over the Seven Kingdoms,” Baelish replied quietly. “One of my agents in Oldtown sent word that there was document there that would be of interest to me. From what he told me, its contents will turn the entire North against Jon and his rule.”

While Arya was sure that Baelish knew more about what was hidden inside than he was letting on, she was more interested in what the letter could contain than thinking more about why he was concealing it from Sansa.

_What could possibly be so bad that the entire North would rise against the King that they had chosen to lead them?_ Arya wondered.

“How long will it be until it arrives?” Sansa asked, with such an undertone of excitement in her voice that Arya had not heard since they were young.

“Do not worry,” Littlefinger said, chuckling slightly at her apparent enthusiasm. “It will be here within the week.”

“I don’t know if we can wait that long,” Sansa said, with mock concern. “You heard about the letter we received from Jon? He is already making his way back from Dragonstone.”

Arya saw Baelish turn away for a moment, clearly in deep thought.

“In fact, this could work in our favour,” he said at last, turning back to Sansa looking excited. “The Northern lords have all made their way here to prepare for the arrival of Jon. If we work fast, we can convince them to support you.”

“Very well,” Sansa said breathlessly, once more feigning excitement. “I shall get to work immediately. Give me a few days.”

“Very well, my love,” Littlefinger said, as he leaned forward to kiss her once more. “I shall do the same for the lords of the Vale.”

“Let me know which of them remain loyal to my brother,” Sansa replied darkly. “They will need to be dealt with appropriately.”

“Of course,” he replied, bowing his head slightly. “But what of your brother and sister? Will they agree with our plan to depose Jon?”

“Leave them to me,” Sansa replied, patting his arm. “I will make them see reason. Arya will be a little challenging as she is the closest to Jon out of all of us, but I am sure that I can convince her.”

Arya smirked slightly at this, as Sansa knew better than most that she would never betray her brother.

Baelish nodded once more before saying his farewells and hurrying away, looking sickeningly pleased with himself. Arya waited for a moment to make sure that he had left before climbing down the tree to land next to Sansa.

“The kiss was a nice touch,” Arya smirked. “But I am surprised that you didn’t vomit.”

“I wanted to,” Sansa said, looking genuinely ill. “Did you see the way that he was pawing at me? I was about to slap him.”

“I was thinking of cutting his hand off,” Arya replied.

At this, Arya saw that Sansa was beaming at her and realised, with a jolt, that this was the first time ever that Arya had shown any protectiveness towards her sister. Arya returned her sister’s smile, happy at the reconciliation between them.

However, their smiles faded when the conversation that had just happened began to sink in.

“What is this document that he was talking about?” Arya wondered aloud. “And what could be in it that would turn the _entire_ North against Jon?”

“I don’t know,” Sansa said, sounding worried. “But whatever it is, we need to make sure that Littlefinger is imprisoned before it gets here.”

*

For the next few days, Sansa met with all of the Northern lords in private and explained to them their plan to trap Littlefinger.

Some of them would need to feign their defection, seemingly to support Sansa while others, such as Lady Lyanna Mormont and Robett Glover, would need to maintain their outspoken loyalty to Jon, so as to not arouse too much suspicion. As the majority of the lords despised Littlefinger, it was not hard for her to convince them to join with them.

Arya, Sansa and Bran had spent as much time together as they could, making sure that every aspect of their plan was working. Luckily everything seemed to be going their way. Especially as, from what Sansa had explained, very few of the Vale lords had agreed to side with Littlefinger. The only exceptions were a few greedy and opportunistic houses, the names of whom were noted by both Arya and Sansa, and a few houses that had been convinced by Sansa to also feign their support.

Despite everything seeming to be working in their favour, Arya was still a little concerned that their plan wouldn’t work in the execution.

Since seeing for herself the truth behind Baelish’s scheming and conniving nature, she didn’t trust that he didn’t have another scheme working behind the scenes. She had maintained her constant watch of the man, but had also extended her vigil to include Robert Stone, to make sure that she was aware the instant that the document arrived from Oldtown.

A few days after the meeting in the godswood, they put the final part of the plan into action.

Sansa had ordered a feast to celebrate the fact that the last of the Northern lords, the representatives of Houses Karstark and Umber, who were being given a wide berth by many, had arrived to welcome Jon home.

They had decided that this was when they would entrap Littlefinger.

Sansa had spoken to Littlefinger and had told him of her desire to announce her claim to the North at the feast. He had agreed that the time had come and had put his ‘loyal men’ into action, ready to support Sansa at her declaration.

On the night of the feast, Arya sat at the high table to Sansa’s left, with Bran on her other side. Sansa was sat at the large chair on the centre of the high table, which had become Jon’s unofficial throne during his brief reign, which had been left vacant in his absence. The sight of Sansa sat in Jon’s seat had caused a bit of a stir in the hall, largely of their own making, but Arya was pleased that it had, as it worked in their plan’s favour.

Littlefinger however, looking supremely smug at the sight of Sansa taking Jon’s place at the table, looking up with her with such undisguised pride and lust on his face that Arya had to physically grip the edge of the table to stop herself from attacking him. However, Arya smirked slightly when she looked to her right to see that Sansa was doing the exact same thing and felt a rush of affection for her sister.

The feast went on for several hours, with many of the guests getting progressively more drunk and rowdy. Arya, however, ate very little as she was on edge, anticipating the moment when they would spring the trap, constantly looking for any indications that their plan had been discovered.

Finally, Sansa rose to her feet and the hall fell to silence almost at once, which Arya knew was due to their collective awareness that the moment had come.

“Welcome to Winterfell, my lords and ladies,” Sansa said, with such grace and formality that Arya was reminded of their mother once more. “I hope that the hospitality of Winterfell has been to your liking.”

At this a cheer went up from the assembled lords, causing Sansa to chuckle slightly.

“As you can see, my brother has not yet returned from Dragonstone,” Sansa continued. “But I think you will all join me in wishing him a speedy and safe return.”

As the assembled lords all raised their goblets in a toast to the “ _King in the North!_ ”, Littlefinger rose to his feet, all according to the ‘plan’ that he had devised with Sansa.

“My lords!” he said, as he strode into the middle of the hall to address them. “While I do indeed wish King Jon a safe return from Dragonstone, I do not believe that it is him that we should be raising our goblets to in toast.

“We should be toasting the _true_ ruler of the North: Sansa Stark, the oldest surviving _trueborn_ child of Lord Eddard Stark.”

A hush fell over the hall at Baelish’s words. However, it didn’t last long before there were murmurs of outrage.

“Jon Snow is our king!” shouted Brandon Tallhart, causing dozens of shouts of agreement at his words.

“Jon Snow is a bastard,” replied Littlefinger calmly. “The bastard of Eddard Stark, true. But a bastard all the same. Trueborn children hold a greater claim than bastards. By all the rules of succession, Jon Snow should not have become the King in the North.”

“ _We_ chose Jon Snow as our king, not you!” Lyanna Mormont spat, her loathing for Baelish clear, causing Arya to feel a rush of respect for the fiery girl.

“You do not _choose_ a king, child,” replied Littlefinger scathingly, causing Lyanna Mormont’s scowl to change into a look so venomous that Arya was surprised that Baelish didn’t cower. “The Targaryens didn’t rule the Seven Kingdoms for centuries because they were _chosen_. They did it because their fathers, and their fathers before them, ruled.”

There was another outbreak of outraged murmurs, which only silenced when Sansa raised her hand, bringing all attention to her.

“So, Lord Baelish, you are declaring your support for me, rather than Jon, as the leader of the North?”

“Yes, my lady,” Baelish replied, as he took a step forward and went down on one knee. “And I would be the first to pledge my fealty to you.”

Arya held her breath, knowing that the moment had come. That if Baelish had another plan, this is when it would come into play. She ran her eyes over the assembled crowd and, despite knowing that the vast majority of them were sided with them, felt completely helpless without Needle at her hip.

“So, you are confessing to treason then, Lord Baelish?” Sansa said calmly.

Littlefinger’s face changed from smug triumph to dumbfounded disbelief so fast that Arya had to force herself to not burst into laughter.

“I…” stammered Baelish, looking completely lost. “I...”

“You just declared that you would pledge your fealty to someone other than Jon Snow, the King in the North, as the ruler of the North,” Sansa stated calmly. “Correct me if I am wrong, but that is treason.”

A roar of approval rose up from the assembled lords at her words, with only the pitiful few of Littlefinger’s true followers remaining silent. Littlefinger himself just remained where he was, on one knee staring up at Sansa looking completely bemused.

Smiling broadly, Arya rose to her feet and offered her chair to Sansa, while at the same time grabbing a new chair for herself, leaving Jon’s chair unoccupied once more. Looking between them and the now empty lord’s chair, Littlefinger’s face became covered by a look of stunned realisation.

“Guards!” Sansa said loudly. “Take Lord Baelish to the dungeons. We will keep him there until _King_ Jon’s return.”

“You can’t do that!” shouted one of Baelish’s men desperately, clearly grasping at any hope to stop the scheme that he had supported from failing.

“Wolkan,” said Sansa politely, turning to the maester. “Would you mind reading the note, please?”

Maester Wolkan took a step forward and, with an almost uncharacteristic smirk of enjoyment on his face, read aloud.

“ _I, Jon Snow, the King in the North, hereby declare that any action taken by Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, against Lord Petyr Baelish was with my full authority and knowledge._ ”

Arya watched as the man who had spoken fell into a stunned silence as the remaining men, those loyal to Jon, cheered at the downfall of Baelish.

“This writ,” Sansa said loudly, her voice trembling slightly in rage as she glared at the unfortunate man who was cowering under the glare of dozens of Northerners. “Gives me the authority to act with my brother’s full authority against Lord Baelish. And I am ordering for him to be arrested for treason. _Now!_ ”

Four Stark men entered the room and grabbed hold of Baelish, who began to struggle pitifully against their strong grasp. The sight of him struggling woefully caused Arya to feel a rush of satisfaction, which was clearly shared among the collective lords, many of whom burst into mocking laughter at the sight as he was dragged out of the hall, closely followed by the men who had pledge their support for him.

“I thank you, my lords and ladies,” Sansa said loudly, getting to her feet once more. “For your loyalty and support for my brother. To King Jon!”

“King Jon!” echoed the room, amidst a vast clattering of goblets and glasses as they all toasted to their king.

As Sansa retook her seat, she looked between Arya and Bran, with a look of triumph on her face.

“Well,” she said, beaming. “We did it.”

Arya nodded enthusiastically, smiling from ear to ear as she thought of Baelish being dragged, kicking and struggling down to the dungeons.

Even more than before, Arya was wishing for Jon’s return.

They would have a lot to discuss.

 


	21. Jon IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go guys, a bit of a Jon and Dany bonding chapter.   
> I hope you all enjoy the chapter and that you think the interactions are within character. To be honest that is one of my biggest worries about writing chapters like this, that the interactions will feel OOC. I hope I'm wrong though, but feel free to tell me what you think in the comments.  
> Next up will be Jaime.

 

Jon

 

Jon stood on the top deck of his ship in the dawn light, feeling the sea breeze ruffle through his hair. It was the morning of their fourth day at sea but already plenty had happened aboard the ship to keep his mind occupied.

The day before, Jorah Mormont had demanded an audience with both him and Daenerys, so the three of them had retreated into the map room. Jon and Daenerys had seated themselves at the table and had shared a bemused look, neither knowing what could have caused such urgency.

“My Queen, King Jon, I carry a message from Samwell Tarly about something that will be of great interest to you both.”

At the mention of Sam, Jon had straightened up in his chair slightly. Jon had known instantly that it couldn’t have anything to do with the White Walkers, as Jorah would simply have told them when he gave them Sam’s notes about the dragonglass and Valyrian steel.

Jon remembered how Daenerys had looked at him curiously, clearly at a loss for what Jorah would tell them.

“While Sam and I were at the Citadel, one of the Archmaesters showed us a document that he had hidden there since the end of the Rebellion.”

Jorah had looked between them for a moment, before focusing on Jon. Jon had realised in hindsight, because of all the stories that he had been told his whole life, that Jorah expected him to have the strongest reaction.

“It was a declaration of the marriage between Rhaegar and Lyanna.”

Jon closed his eyes, blocking out the sight of the rolling waves as he remembered the feeling of the ground opening up from under him that he had experienced at hearing those words.

The idea that everything that he had heard his whole life about Lyanna was wrong, that she might have actually _willingly_ left Winterfell with Rhaegar, was completely baffling to Jon. And, after catching her eye, Jon could tell that Daenerys was as awestruck by this information as he was.

But that feeling was nothing compared to what came next.

“And that is not all,” Jorah continued, looking very uncomfortable and apprehensive about what he was about to share.

He had paused for a moment, clearly steeling his nerves for what he was about to say.

“Yes, Ser Jorah?” Daenerys had said, a note of urgency in her voice. “What was the other things?”

“They had a child,” Jorah said steadily. “A boy, that they named Jaehaerys.”

Jon and Daenerys had shared a shocked look, neither of them quite believing what they had just heard. They both looked at Jorah questioningly, as if daring him to reveal that he was lying.

But he did not.

He merely nodded in confirmation.

“Archmaester Willem explained that he, and Lord Eddard after he was made away of the note’s existence, decided to keep it sealed away in the Citadel, for fear of igniting another civil war.”

“Wait,” Jon had interrupted, vaguely noting the note of distaste in Jorah’s voice at the mention of Eddard. “My father _knew_ about this?”

Jorah nodded again.

“From what Willem said, your father wanted to prevent another war, but also to protect Jaehaerys from Robert Baratheon’s hatred of the Targaryens.”

While Jon had been initially hurt and confused by the lie that his father had told him and all of the other Stark children all of their lives, he understood and respected his father’s decision to protect his nephew.

_Jaehaerys._

Jon had thought on the name a lot since that meeting, even late into the night.

Where was he? What was he like? What did he _look_ like?

 _He would be of a similar age to me and Robb_ , Jon had thought, with a smile.

In Jon’s mind, he pictured a tall, strong man who looked similar to Bran, but the main difference being the silver hair, like Daenerys. Daenerys, like him, had looked surprised to learn of the existence of her nephew but, after the shock had worn off, Jon could see the hints of excitement in her face at the thought of having another family member.

Jon had noticed it too back on Dragonstone, when he had told her about Maester Aemon, her great-uncle that she had never known had existed. Jon had seen her face light up with joy at the prospect of having a family member, so she was no longer the last of the Targaryens. He had felt guilty in telling her the truth, destroying that dream.

He hoped that he wouldn’t have to see that look of disappointment and despair on her face again.

Jon was brought from his thoughts by the sounds of footsteps from behind him and turned to see Jorah walking towards him. Although he couldn’t exactly explain why, he was a little disappointed that it wasn’t Daenerys coming to talk with him, as she had done for the past few mornings.

Despite their hostile first meeting, he was now finding it incredibly easy and enjoyable to talk with her. There was a strength to her that Jon respected. It couldn’t have been easy to have convinced such a large number of warriors, particularly the notoriously wild Dothraki, to follow her. And yet they, despite Barbarro’s foolishness in the battle, followed her commands unwaveringly.

And yet, there was also a kindness to her that Jon had begun to see the more that he spoke to her. After their first meeting, Jon had thought her a little cold but he realised now that he had been mistaken. Her interactions with her handmaiden Missandei and, in particular, Mikken, the elderly man that had accompanied her to the North, had showed Jon that there was a level of compassion and warmth to Daenerys that he had not seen at first, and he smiled at the thought.

Jorah stopped alongside Jon and stood staring out over the sea for a moment in silence.

“King Jon,” he said finally.

“Ser Jorah,” replied Jon curtly.

While Jon and Jorah had not spoken to each other much while on the ship, their interactions had become increasingly more tense. They had been civil in their initial meeting, with Jon being polite to the man mainly out of respect for Jeor and his gratitude of the information that he had brought with him, but their politeness had quickly vanished.

Since their meeting, Jon had been dwelling over just what he should do with Jorah Mormont.

He knew of the circumstances that had resulted in Jorah’s exile from the North and was disgusted that the man could willingly sell men into slavery. At the same time, Jon knew that he couldn’t demand Daenerys hand the man over for execution for his crime. Not so soon after their alliance had been formed and especially not given the clear bond that the two of them shared.

However, the bond that was between them made Jon curious as, while they both clearly treasured the other’s company, they evidently did not share the same feeling over the nature of their bond. Jon had noticed the blatant affection that Jorah held for Daenerys, in the looks of adoration that he gave her whenever she wasn’t looking and his determination to be at her side whenever possible. Daenerys, however, seemed to regard Jorah as merely a trusted friend and advisor.

As Jon looked at Jorah out of the corner of his eye, he recalled the look on the man’s face whenever Jon would talk with Daenerys. It had started the day before, when Daenerys had spent a lot of time in the map room with Jorah, catching him up on everything that had happened in his absence. Since then, whenever he saw Jon and Daenerys conversing, he looked both suspicious and, if Jon was reading his expression correctly, angry. However, Jon now realised the motivation behind at least part of Jorah’s coolness toward him.

 _Jealousy_ , Jon thought, as he shook his head in exasperation.

But then there was the other, probably more important, reason.

He was Eddard Stark’s son, the man who had forced him into exile from his home to Essos and live out his life as a sellsword. While Jon had little sympathy for the reasons behind Jorah exile, he did realise that it could not have been easy for the man, to run away and leave behind everything that he had ever known.

They stayed that way for a while, neither speaking and just staring out over the rolling waves, lost in their own thoughts.

“So, King Jon,” Jorah said suddenly, breaking the silence. “What will become of me once we arrive in the North?”

Jon turned to him, not surprised by the question but surprised that it had taken him so long to broach the subject.

Turning back to face the sea, Jon answered curtly.

“If I was going to take your life, Ser Jorah, I would have done it already.”

Although Jon was not looking at him, he could sense the relief that the older man felt at his words. Swallowing back his distaste, Jon made sure to not leave him in any doubt over the reasons for his decision.

“The only reason that I am not punishing you for the crimes that you have committed, crimes so grave that my father would have executed you if you had not fled to Essos, is because of the place of confidence that you have with Daenerys. We are allies now and I would not risk the alliance that we have negotiated by expressing my desire to execute one of her most trusted advisors.”

Silence fell between them at Jon’s words, with Jorah’s face becoming a stony mask. Jon didn’t lower his eyes from the man’s glare, merely staring defiantly back at him.

“I am not proud of my actions, Your Grace,” Jorah replied gruffly. “I know that selling men into slavery is a grave crime, and I make no excuses for doing so.”

He paused for a moment, looking off into space.

“I hated your father for a long time for my exile,” he said after a moment, still looking out over the sea with a far-away look on his face. “It seemed easier to do that, to blame him for what happened, than to face the truth. To face the reality of what I had done, the dishonour that I had brought on my family’s name.”

Jon stood watching him for a moment, too stunned by his confession to respond. After a moment, Jon realised that he couldn’t just stand staring at him, so he decided to move the conversation along.

“Regardless of my decision concerning you, I don’t know how you will be received by the rest of the North,” Jon said, looking away from Jorah. “Not well, I would guess. Particularly from Lady Lyanna. Your crimes are not exactly secret and Lady Mormont is not known for hiding her opinions.”

Jorah chuckled slightly before answering.

“I am not expecting to be well received, Your Grace. As you say, my crimes are well known in the North. But I am not expecting to retake my seat as the Head of House Mormont. I am the Lord Commander of Queen Daenerys’ Queensguard. My place is by her side.”

“That _might_ make it easier to accept,” Jon replied, nodding. “If they know that you will be going South with Daenerys rather than staying, they might be a little more accepting of you. But no promises.”

Jorah nodded grimly, seemingly resigning himself to remaining a pariah among his fellow Northerners and his family.

“Very well,” he said resolutely. “It is the best that I can hope for after what I did.”

Jorah turned and headed back down to the lower decks. Jon watched him leave with an odd feeling in his gut, feeling more confused by their conversation. While Jon did not understand or approve of Jorah’s actions, the man seemed to be genuinely remorseful and offered no weak explanation to try to rationalise what he had done.

Jon turned back to the sea, feeling a little surer of his decision to not to execute him.

 _I imagine the scolding that he will receive from Lady Mormont will be punishment enough,_ pondered Jon, with a smile as he thought of the fiery young lady.

*

The next day, Jon was sat at the desk in his cabin. It was nearing dusk and he was pouring over maps of the Seven Kingdoms, wracking his brain trying to think of any possible strategies to give them an advantage in the coming battles while at the same time trying to decide on how to persuade the lords of the North to allow their fighting men to head South to aid in Daenerys’ campaign.

 _It will not be easy,_ thought Jon, as he sat back in chair, abandoning the maps.

The Northerners had just finished liberating themselves from the rule of the Boltons and, before that, had suffered heavy losses during the War of the Five Kings. As Sansa had said before he had left Winterfell, the Northerners would not welcome another war so soon, with the potential for so many more of their sons dying.

 _They will have to fight,_ Jon thought grimly, as he looked back at the map to the Lands Beyond the Wall. _Sooner or later, they will have to fight a war._

Jon wondered for a moment about what was happening north of the wall. He had not received any letters from Winterfell during his time at Dragonstone, so he had to assume that the Wall had not fallen in his absence.

 _I hope_ , Jon thought darkly.

If it hadn’t fallen, Jon wondered why the Night King had not pressed the advantage of numbers that the White Walkers had and attacked the Wall. As he thought this, Jon remembered the tales and rumours about the Wall that he had heard during his time in the Night’s Watch, and even before then, about the supposed enchantments on the Wall to keep the White Walkers from breaching it. No one had believed in them at the time, as nobody had believed that the White Walkers were even real.

But now…

 _I hope that they are real,_ thought Jon desperately, looking out of the window northwards. _And I hope they hold long enough for us to gather our strength._

A knock at the door brought Jon from his thoughts.

Jon was about to call for them to enter, when the door swung open and Tormund entered, carrying a skin of something and two goblets.

“You know, Tormund,” began Jon, smiling widely. “You are supposed to wait for people to give you permission to enter their room before barging in.”

Tormund stopped on the spot, before looking around the room mockingly.

“Oh, I’m sorry, _Your Grace_ ,” he replied, putting as much sarcasm into Jon’s title as he could. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” Jon replied.

“Then shut up telling me about your Southern customs and have a drink with me.”

Jon laughed as he pulled up a chair for his friend, who slumped into it before pouring out the liquid into the two goblets. The flickering light from the candle threw his wound into sharp relief. The maester Pylos had done a good job of stitching the wound together but it was still a bit shocking to look at.

Not that Tormund minded much. He was still bragging to all within earshot about the scar that he would soon be sporting or laughing at the looks of discomfort that the crew was giving him.

He pushed a goblet of the liquid towards Jon, who looked at it before raising his eyebrows to Tormund curiously.

“It is a proper Northern drink,” he said, as he drained his own goblet before refilling it. “Not that fucking grape water that you have been drinking with the dwarf.”

Jon smiled a little as he raised the goblet to his mouth and drained it. The liquid burned the back of his throat as it went down and he had to restrain himself from coughing. He remembered drinking something similar, back in Mance Rayder’s tent when he was attempting to kill him after the Battle of the Wall.

Trying to control himself from bursting into a coughing fit, he refilled his goblet. As he did so, he saw that Tormund was examining the maps on the desk in front of them.

“So,” he said, as he smirking at Jon. “Have you devised a plan to win the war for us Jon Snow?”

Shaking his head in exasperation as he took another swig from his goblet.

“No, I haven’t,” Jon said, as he too examined the map. “I also have to devise a way to convince the Northern lords to allow their fighting men to head south to aid Daenerys.”

“You are their king,” Tormund said, looking a little confused. “Can’t you just order them to give you their men?”

“I probably could,” replied Jon patiently. “But if I did, then they wouldn’t want me as their king for long, would they? Did Mance just order of the Free Folk tribes to follow him, or did he convince them in other ways?”

“Good point,” Tormund said, nodding in agreement.

“Well,” Tormund continued, as he refilled both of their goblets, even though Jon’s was only half-drained. “You have me, and my men. Whatever happens.”

“Thank you, Tormund,” Jon said, grateful for the man’s loyalty.

“Well,” Tormund laughed. “I may not be a beautiful woman with dragons, but we still have our alliance.”

“What are you talking about?” Jon sighed, shaking his head.

“Oh, come on, Snow,” Tormund said, still chuckling. “A blind man could see that you and that Dragon Queen want each other.”

Jon drained his goblet to avoid answering, but Tormund merely laughed at his embarrassment.

The truth was that Tormund’s jest was actually a little closer to the truth than he realised. Daenerys was easily one of, if not _the_ most beautiful women that Jon had ever met and the prospect of their implied marriage pact did not seem as daunting as he had thought that it would.

“So why are you here with me, and not in her cabin?”

As Tormund said this, the image of Ygritte’s face flashed in Jon’s mind and his stomach tightened. Ygritte had been gone for a few years now, but he felt the pang of loss whenever he thought of her.

As if reading his mind, Tormund leaned forward.

“She wouldn’t have wanted you to go back to your Crow vows for the rest of your days,” Tormund said, not unkindly. “If you remember, she worked _very_ hard to get you off them in the first place.”

Jon chuckled at this, before draining the goblet once more, the alcohol no longer burning his throat. Tormund reached out and grasped hold of his forearm and Jon reluctantly met his friend’s eye.

“I know you still love her, but the dead want nothing, Jon,” Tormund said. “And she wouldn’t have wanted you to pine for her like this.”

Jon exhaled deeply and closed his eyes. Memories of Ygritte came flooding unbidden into his mind and his stomach knotted at the thoughts, accompanied by the dull ache of loss.

However, Jon knew that Tormund was right. If she was here, Ygritte would probably be chastising him for not pursuing Daenerys. And besides, Jon knew that as the King in the North, and because of the conditions of his alliance with Daenerys, he didn’t really have a choice in the matter.

 _Not that it is much of a hardship,_ Jon found himself thinking, as the visage of the flame-haired Ygritte shifted into Daenerys, with her flowing silvery locks and striking violet eyes.

Jon mentally shook himself, trying to regain sense of his thoughts. Knowing that the strong Free Folk alcohol was not helping, he turned his drained goblet upside down on the table, showing that he was done.

Tormund raised an eyebrow at him curiously, before bursting into laughter.

“It seems like our strong drink has gotten the best of you, Snow,” Tormund laughed, as he clapped Jon on the back.

Jon chuckled as well, as Tormund got to his feet.

“I shall leave this with you,” he said, sliding the now half-empty skin towards Jon. “So, you can have a bit of practise before our next drink.”

As Tormund turned to leave, his eyes landed onto the map once more and his smile faded a little. After a moment, he turned to Jon, with a serious look on his face.

“You know,” he said, all traces of jests gone from his face. “After Mance died, I swore that I would have no other king. But I was wrong.”

Tormund paused for a moment and Jon looked back at him, completely shocked by this declaration.

“ _You_ are my king now, Jon Snow.”

Jon stat in his chair, stunned. The importance of this confession was not lost on Jon. The Free Folk did not have kings, they would not kneel. Mance was one of the notable exceptions, but he was regarded as one of their own.

Jon was not.

And yet, here Tormund was, doing the Free Folk equivalent of swearing him his fealty.

“Tormund, I-” Jon began, before Tormund raised a hand to cut him off.

“I am not fucking bowing, so don’t ask.”

At this, Jon burst out laughing.

“I didn’t expect you to, Tormund,” Jon said, getting to his feet and extending his hand.

Tormund nodded and grasped Jon’s forearm in a vice grip. The two of them looked at each other for a moment, before nodding grimly in agreement, reaffirming their partnership, before they broke their handshake.

Tormund nodded once more before leaving the room.

Jon retook his seat, and looked back at the map. While he knew that he probably should resume his planning but, despite having achieved very little that night, he just couldn’t find the motivation to do so, particularly after his conversation with Tormund.

Jon buried his head in his hands, trying to dispel the confused thoughts that were still swirling through his head.

A second, much lighter, knock at the door that evening once again broke Jon’s thoughts.

“Come in” said Jon, not rising his head from his hands.

Jon heard the door open once more and expected it to be Tormund, mocking him for his insistence on knocking.

“May I join you?” came a familiar voice from the doorway.

Jon turned his head towards to door to see Daenerys standing in the doorway, smiling warmly at him. She looked beautiful with her hair pulled back and braided neatly behind her head, and wearing a flowing silver dress that matched her hair.

“Of course,” said Jon, offering Tormund’s now vacant chair to her.

She smiled at him once more and closed the door behind her. Jon quickly realised that she had come alone, with no sign of Jorah. Daenerys crossed the room quickly and took her seat.

“May I?” she inquired, gesturing towards the skin left behind by Tormund.

“I would be careful with that,” Jon cautioned. “It is a lot stronger than wine.”

Daenerys merely raised an eyebrow at him as she poured herself some. Jon simply smirked at her determined look and shrugged. She drank some and promptly began coughing and spluttering and Jon couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight.

“Y-you weren’t jesting,” she gasped, putting down the goblet.

“No, I wasn’t,” Jon smiled, as he sealed the skin. “Tormund brought it. It is what they drink north of the Wall. I have only had it a few times, but it is still very strong.

“I do have some wine,” Jon offered, as he got up from his seat to find where he had put the wine.

“Thank you,” he heard Daenerys from behind him. “I think that is a better idea.”

Jon smiled as he grabbed two clean goblets and headed back over to his desk. He filled them both up and pushed one to her.

“Healthy measures you give, Jon Snow,” she said, regarding her nearly full goblet. “I think you might have been drinking with Tyrion too much.”

“Maybe,” Jon chuckled, thinking fondly of the dwarf.

“He thinks very highly of you, you know?” she said, clearly reading the look on his face.

“He’s a good man. A good friend,” Jon replied.

They drank in silence for a moment before Jon broke it.

“What can I do for you, Queen Daenerys?”

Daenerys turned to him, and regarded him with amusement in her purple eyes.

“Dany,” she replied softly.

“What?” Jon replied, confused.

“You can call me Dany, Jon,” she said patiently. “There is no need to be so formal.”

Jon smiled at her words, marvelling once more at how their relationship had changed from their initial frosty meeting to this.

“All right,” Jon said, nodding. “What can I do for you, Dany?”

“I think that it is time we got to know each other a little better,” Dany replied, drinking a little more wine. “Whenever we speak, it is to discuss strategy and tactics for the comping campaign. But if we are to be allies and later…”

Dany paused here and it didn’t escape Jon’s attention. In all of the conversations that they’d had in the last few days, neither of them had explicitly mentioned the marriage agreement. While Jon knew that it hadn’t been overtly said that it would be between the two of them, he knew that they were both aware of the implication.

Dany cleared her throat and continued.

“If we are to work together, then I think we should know a little more about each other. I have only heard stories about you, stories that I assume have been exaggerated in places. So, I would like to hear the true events from you.”

“You already know about my time at the Night’s Watch, and my experiences with the White Walkers and the Boltons. What else do you wish to know?”

“Tell me of Winterfell,” she said, setting down her goblet and looking at him with interest. “Of your family.”

Jon set down his own goblet and collected his thoughts for a moment before beginning.

“It was strange, growing up at Winterfell,” Jon began, turning to face Dany and seeing her giving him her undivided attention. “I always knew, even from a young age, that I was a bastard. And, while Lady Catelyn, and later Sansa, were never particularly warm to me, I was never excluded. Lord Eddard always treated me like his son, and I was always close with my other siblings, especially Robb and Arya.

“And yet,” he hesitated for a moment, remembering his feeling of isolation in Winterfell, that feeling of not being sure that he belonged. “I always felt like the outsider. Like I said back on Dragonstone, I eventually joined the Night’s Watch so that I could feel like I belonged somewhere.”

“Do you regret it?” Dany asked. “Joining the Night’s Watch?”

“Sometimes,” Jon admitted. “I remember all the times that I heard about my family being torn apart. First my father’s death in King’s Landing, and Sansa and Arya’s supposed imprisonment there. Then, once I returned to the Wall, came the news of Winterfell’s sacking and the Red Wedding. All at once I heard of Robb’s betrayal and Bran and Rickon being on the run.

“Each time I felt so powerless, trapped up at the Wall, unable to do anything to help them. Even knowing that I probably wouldn’t have been able to do much, the idea that I couldn’t even _try_ was frustrating.”

“But you _did_ try,” Dany reminded him softly. “You said that you attempted to desert the Night’s Watch, to aid your brother when he marched to war.”

Jon looked at Dany, surprised that she remembered his angry outburst to Randyll Tarly on the beach after the battle.

“I did,” Jon admitted. “But even if I had made it to Robb, I don’t think that he would have accepted my aid, for me breaking my oath to the Night’s Watch.

“He was too much like Father that way,” Jon said, chuckling in spite of himself as he thought of his brother. “Besides, even if he accepted my help I would probably have died alongside him at the Red Wedding.”

As Jon thought once more of Robb’ betrayal, his hand, which had been laid on the desk next to his wine goblet, clenched into a fist as his sadness turned into anger.

“Jon,” he heard Dany say, as he felt her small, warm hand lay on top of his clenched fist. “You will get vengeance for what happened to your family. The Lannisters and the Freys will pay for what they have done.

“And I will help you,” she said resolutely, looking into his eyes with a look of determination on her face.

Jon smiled gratefully at her, which she returned with a warm smile of her own, as he matched her determined look. They stayed that way for a moment, before she retracted her hand and grabbed her wine.

Jon sat in silence for a moment, before deciding to move the conversation along.

“What about your family?” Jon asked curiously.

“You mean, other than the family member that we share,” Dany replied, with a wry smirk.

Jon, knowing that she meant Jaehaerys, smiled and nodded.

“I wonder what he is like,” Dany said, clearly thinking aloud. “I wonder what he _looks_ like. And, where is he?”

Jon, despite having thought a lot about Jaehaerys over the last few days, once more fell into his own thoughts. In particular, he remembered Jorah’s revelation that his Father had knew about Jaehaerys’ birth.

 _Did Father help hide him?_ Jon wondered, looking back at the map. _If so, where? Was he still in the Seven Kingdoms, or had Father sent him to Essos?_

“I hope he is like his father,” Dany said softly, and Jon saw that she looked worried. “I hope he is more like Rhaegar, than my father or Viserys.”

Jon vaguely remembered Tyrion telling him that Dany had named her dragons after her brothers, Viserys and Rhaegal, and her late husband, Drogo. However, Tyrion had not spoken much more about Viserys.

“You never knew Rhaegar, did you?” Jon asked.

“No,” she replied, shaking her head sadly. “He had already died when I was born. I wish that I had though. All I knew about him was the stories that Viserys told me while I was growing up, and I later learned that they were all lies.”

Jon sympathised with her, with the recent revelations about Jaehaerys, and his father’s actions involved, being fresh in his mind.

“What about Viserys?” Jon asked. “What was he like?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Jon knew that he shouldn’t have asked. Dany’s face become covered by a look of sadness and hurt.

“It was… difficult, growing up with Viserys,” Dany said quietly. “It didn’t help that we didn’t have any permanent home. We moved on every few weeks, at longest a few months. We stayed with various wealthy nobles and merchants that my brother hoped would support his claim to the Throne.

“However, this merely gained him the title of the Beggar King, which enraged him. Viserys had a short temper at the best of times. He used to call it ‘waking the dragon’ whenever I angered him.”

Dany didn’t elaborate but Jon could tell what she was hinting at. He couldn’t imagine how lonely her childhood must have been, moving from city to city, never staying long enough to make true friends, with only her abusive brother for company.

“And then he sold me,” Dany said, so bluntly that Jon was a little shocked. “He sold me to Drogo so that he could have an army to retake the Iron Throne. That is all I was to him: a way to get what he wanted. He said that he would allow the entire Dothraki horde and their horses rape me if it had gotten him what he had wanted.”

Jon had noticed that Dany was growing angrier and more upset the more she spoke, so he reached out and grasped her forearm gently to comfort her.

“Dany,” he said softly, but also firmly enough to get her attention. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

Dany turned to look at him, and smiled reassuringly at him as she covered his hand with her own once more.

“I’m all right, Jon,” she said softly. “Despite everything that happened, Viserys was still my brother. And I still loved him as my brother.

“I am happy for you though,” she continued, causing Jon to furrow his brow in confusion. “Despite everything, you seemed to have a very close bond with your siblings.”

“Something that you should have had too,” Jon replied, not dropping his gaze from her.

Despite her insistence that she was fine, Jon could see the hurt in her face as she remembered these things, and he felt guilty that he had made her relive them. He also held their supposed marriage pact in a new light, hearing how she had been forced into marrying Drogo.

He wanted to find a way to comfort her, to make her forget these clearly horrible thoughts for a moment.

Jon moved his chair closer to her and, ignoring her curious look, moved his hand from her forearm and gripped her small hand in his own. He gave her hand a gentle, comforting squeeze, which caused her to smile thankfully back at him. She leaned forward and pressed her forehead into his shoulder, while gripping his hand back.

Jon, without thinking much about it, leaned forward and pressed a light kiss to the top of her head, and left his head there, breathing in the smell of her hair, hoping that his presence was giving her comfort. Jon could tell that Dany wasn’t used to letting out of her feelings like this, showing her feelings of loneliness and hurt, preferring to hide them behind her mask of coolness and confidence.

 _She had been through so much_ , Jon thought, as he felt her hand continue to grip his own. _She has suffered so much from people so close to her, and yet she has remained so strong, so determined. It is remarkable._

After a moment, Dany raised her head and smiled gratefully at him, and Jon was relieved to see that she was looking a little more like her confident self.

“Thank you, Jon,” she said softly.

Jon smiled back at her warmly. Without really thinking, he averted his eyes from her own and drifted down to her lips. With the intimacy of the moment that they had just shared clearly not gone, Jon felt an overwhelming urge to kiss her.

As if reading his mind, Dany leaned forward slightly, her mouth opening slightly. Jon hesitated for a moment, but then he too leaned forward towards her…

A loud crash and shouting from above them broke the moment, with both of them looking to the ceiling, where the loud shouting of the stand in captain was drifting down to them.

“Pick up that mess, you inept prick,” came his muffled bellows. “And stop making such a row on the deck of the King’s ship.”

Jon sighed, wishing that Davos was with them. He managed to keep control over the crew without yelling at every moment, a trait that his replacement clearly didn’t share.

He looked back at Dany who, with the moment between them passed, had leaned back into her chair once more. They sat in an awkward silence for a moment, before Dany got to her feet.

“Thank you, Jon” she said, smiling at him once more. “For everything.”

Jon returned her smile and nodded to her. She turned and made her way towards the door. Jon knew that he should say something to her, something to explain what had just happened, telling her that she didn’t have to leave.

But for the life of him, Jon couldn’t think of anything.

Dany opened the door to leave but at the last moment she turned back to look at him. There was a warmth in her gaze that Jon hadn’t seen since Ygritte.

“Good night, Jon” she said softly.

“Good night,” he replied, returning her smile.

She stood in the doorway looking at him for a moment longer, before turning and leaving, closing the door behind her.

Jon leaned back in his chair, sighing deeply. He banged his fist onto the table top in frustration, hard enough to cause the goblets to rattle against each other.

And then, he heard Ygritte’s voice in his mind, as clear as if she was standing next to him.

_You know nothing, Jon Snow._


	22. Jaime III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanna thank you all for the responses to the last chapter. I've said it before, and I think that I will be saying it a few more times before this fic is over, but you guys are awesome! Thank you.  
> It's a bit of a shorter chapter this time, but it does have some needed developments for Jaime, both for his character and his arc, so I hope you all like it.  
> Next up will be Tyrion, arriving in Dorne.

 

Jaime

 

Jaime laid on his back on the hard bunk, looking up at the cobweb strewn ceiling through the gloomy half-light. He had been in the cell for a week or so by now, and his eyes had quickly grown accustomed to the gloom but even he could tell how dark it was in the cell.

Turning his head to the side, he looked around the small cell. Jaime had quickly realised that he was in the same cell that Tyrion had been kept in after the death of Joffrey. And nothing about it had changed since his brother’s incarceration.

There was a stark stone floor, strewn with small pieces of straw and rat droppings, with the sound of the rats themselves, scurrying out of sight, sounding far louder than it was, echoing around the small space. The only light in the cell came from the small barred window in the heavy wooden door, or from the small slit of the window. Jaime had tried to get any view of the city outside, but try as he might, he couldn’t.

While there was not much of a view from the window, Jaime could certainly hear sounds from the city. In the past few days, there had been what had sound like growing unrest within the city, with shouting and even the sound of clashing steel a few times.

_The city is starting to fall apart_ , Jaime thought sadly. _The people are starting to grow tired of Cersei’s madness, and there is nothing I can do to stop it._

At the thought of Cersei, Jaime fell back into his own thoughts. One of the advantages of being stuck alone in the dark was that it had given him plenty of time to think and reflect on his actions, his mistakes. Many of them had involved Cersei, in one form or another.

He thought back to his younger years, when he and Cersei had first become intimate with each other. They had been caught once by a servant and their mother, Joanna, had moved Jaime to sleep on the other side of the castle. She had warned them if they had done something similar again, then she would tell their father.

_What if I had listened?_ Jaime wondered. _What if I had taken the warning, and never got involved with Cersei again? Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen wouldn’t have been born, but I probably wouldn’t have fallen under her spell like I did._

The thought of his now dead children made Jaime’s stomach knot uncomfortably. While he had never fully acknowledged any of them as his children while they had been alive, as a way of protecting them, he had always known, deep down, that they were his. And while he had never been particularly fond of Joffrey and his behaviour, Myrcella and Tommen had both been kind and innocent children, unwilling to hurt anyone, as different from their brother as it was possible to be.

But were they worth the horrible acts that he had committed in order to keep Cersei?

Jaime was sickened with himself as he thought back to all of the terrible things that he had done for her.

_“The things I do for love.”_

Jaime saw himself push Bran Stark from the window, fully intending to kill the child. While Bran had survived, he had been made a cripple. Guilt and remorse flooded through Jaime, so thick that it rose like bile in his throat. Swallowing heavily, he rubbed his face with his remaining hand.

_How could I do such a thing?_ Jaime thought, disgusted with himself. _How could I be so willing to kill a child to protect what I had with Cersei?_

And not just children.

Family too.

Jaime thought back to when he was Robb Stark’s prisoner, during the War of Five Kings. Chained to a post in a small cage, covered in his own filth for months. He remembered Alton Lannister, a distant cousin of his, and how the young man had been placed in his cage. How he had excitedly reminded Jaime of squiring for him during the tourney at Willem Frey’s wedding.

_And I killed him,_ Jaime recalled guiltily. _I bashed his head in, just so I could attempt to escape._

To get back to Cersei.

Jaime’s guilt rose even higher than before and he rubbed his face even harder, as if hoping to scrub away his guilt. However, his remorse was joined by another feeling, one of rage, at both himself and Cersei.

The sound of the door opening caught his attention. He swung his legs off the bunk and sat up, shielding his eyes from the sudden flood of light entering the room, thrown by a flickering torch.

Once his eyes re-accustomed to the light, he lowered his hand and was surprised by who he saw. The torch was being held by the towering form of the Mountain, the top of whose head was just touching the ceiling. Standing in front of him, dwarfed by the man’s size, was Cersei and, to Jaime’s fury, Qyburn.

Jaime glared at the man, a little grateful that he no longer had to hide his distaste and contempt for the man. Qyburn, on the other hand, did not seemed phased in the least by Jaime’s open hatred for him. In response, he merely smugly smirked back at him, with only served to infuriate him further.

To stop himself from attacking Qyburn, to wipe the smug look of his face, and only serve to be killed by the Mountain, Jaime turned to examine Cersei.

She was looking even more gaunt than ever, with large dark shadows under her eyes, which contrasted starkly against her increasingly pale skin. She clearly had not left the Red Keep in some time.

_She is still drinking heavily,_ Jaime thought. _If the smell of wine is anything to go by._

Jaime met Cersei’s eye, and saw that she was looking down at him with a mixture of anger and pity on her face. He imagined that he didn’t look very good, covered in a layer of dirt and grime that covered the cell. He wondered which of the two feelings she would express first.

“How are you?” Cersei asked stiffly.

_Ah, so pity then?_ Jaime thought sardonically.

Jaime looked around the cell mockingly before answering.

“Well. Apart from being imprisoned in the Black Cells, once again being covered in dirt and my own shit and eating food that I’m sure is the leftovers from the kennels, I am fine.”

Any pity that had been on Cersei’s face vanished, with it becoming a cold mask of anger.

“You are here because of your own actions against me,” she spat, visibly bristling with anger.

“Actions which were caused because of _your_ actions,” Jaime growled back at her. “Yours and those of that smirking piece of shit.”

As he said this, he pointed towards Qyburn, whose smile faltered slightly for the first time. However, at Jaime’s accusing finger, the Mountain moved towards him, an inhuman growl echoing from inside the giant helm. Jaime looked back to where the eyes of the man, or whatever he was now, should be, determined to not show any fear or weakness.

After a tense moment, Cersei turned and raised her hand toward Qyburn and the Mountain, who lumbered back into his positon in front of the door. There was silence in the room for a moment, which was broken by renewed shouts and screams from outside the Keep, accompanied by the clash of steel.

Jaime turned towards the window, and saw that Cersei did the same, looking both apprehensive and angry.

_It sounds like another riot is breaking out_ , Jaime thought.

“Fucking peasants,” Cersei muttered under her breath.

“Struggling to keep control over your people, sister?” Jaime asked, his anger still bubbling just below the surface.

She turned to face him, her own anger clear on her face. Her eyes were narrowed into slits, her nostrils flaring.

“I’m struggling to keep control of a murderous rabble, who attack my men in streets.”

“Because of what you have done to them!” Jaime roared back at her, feeling a small rush of satisfaction at the look of surprise and shock on her face.

Taking a deep breath to calm himself slightly, Jaime continued.

“Have you never wondered why they didn’t revolt against you sooner?”

Cersei looked shocked by the question and didn’t answer, but he could tell by the curious look on her face that she had indeed wondered.

“Because of me and Bronn.”

This shocked her even further, causing her mouth to widen in surprise and Jaime couldn’t supress a smirk.

“What are you talking about?” she snapped, although Jaime could still detect the curiosity in her voice.

“Whenever you enacted one of your idiotic plans, me and Bronn would help them. When you decided to horde the food in the Red Keep for the winter, to keep you and the other nobles well fed while everyone else starved, it was me and Bronn that led the thieves to it, so they could distribute it to those who needed it.

“The people that you were sending to the Qyburn, to do whatever foul experiments that he wanted to on them, because they dared to stand against you? It was me and Bronn that started to relocate them before you could find them, to keep them and their family safe.

“Do you hear me?” Jaime growled, taking a step towards her. “The only reason that this didn’t happen sooner is because of me, and the man that your fucking monstrosity killed.”

Jaime turned away from Cersei’s stunned face and sat back down on his bunk, looking to the ceiling. Silence fell in the cell once more, but it didn’t last for long.

“A very noble story, _Valonqar_ ,” Cersei spat, her voice thick with rage and contempt. “But after your betrayal, I’m not sure that I believe anything that you would say.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Jaime said, turning to her. “What is a _Valonqar_?”

Cersei sighed deeply at his words, and her look of rage softened slightly. A flicker of what appeared to be fear flashed across her face for a moment.

“It is Valyrian,” She explained. “For ‘Little Brother’.”

Jaime merely scowled a little in confusion, so she sighed and continued.

“You remember what I told you of Maggie the Frog? Of how she told me of our children’s deaths?”

Jaime nodded, although he wasn’t really sure what she was trying to tell him. He had never given prophecies and predictions much credibility. Cersei, on the other hand, had clearly taken Maggie the Frog’s predictions to heart.

“She also made another,” she continued, wringing her hands and looking a little distressed. “About the one who would kill me.

“She said ‘ _And when your tears have drowned you, the Valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you’.”_

She stopped for a moment, and looked at her hands. Jaime looked back at her, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I always thought that it would be Tyrion,” she whispered, not looking at him. “That vile, wretched little beast has never hidden his hatred for me. So, I was always on guard against him, waiting for him to try to kill me.

“But,” she said, as she turned back to him. “There was something that I overlooked, something that my love for you clouded. I was born before you too, if only by a few moments. So, you too are my little brother.”

She looked at him for a moment, and Jaime could visibly see the distress and uncertainty leave her face, leaving a cold and cruel look in their wake.”

“You are the _Valonqar_.”

Jaime started to laugh, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Just when I think that you can’t act more fucking insane, you do this,” Jaime snarled, taking a step towards her and hearing the Mountain move forward as well.

Cersei looked back at him defiantly and Jaime knew, with a pang in his gut, that Cersei was, like Bronn had said, too far gone to be reasoned with.

He knew that he would likely have to kill her.

“If I kill you,” Jaime said calmly, meeting her emerald eyes with his own. “It will not be because of some fucking prophecy. It will be because it is the right thing to do, to save all of those beneath your rule from your fucking insanity. From the rule of Cersei Lannister, the Mad Queen.”

At the name, Cersei’s eye flickered with rage but Jaime didn’t care. He merely stared defiantly back at her. She held his gaze for a moment, before she turned and left the cell, not saying a word.

Jaime turned to see Qyburn flash him a devious grin that made Jaime want to split open the man’s head. Qyburn and the Mountain followed Cersei from the room, the door swinging shut behind them, shrouding Jaime in darkness once more.

Jaime sat on his bunk, waiting as his eyes readjusted to the gloom. He thought back to what Cersei had said and sadly marvelled at just how far his sister had fallen. He remembered back to their childhood and when they had been growing up. He thought of her then, the beautiful woman that he grew to love, and he mourned her passing.

_That woman died_ , Jaime thought sadly. _A long time ago. I was just too blind to see it._

Jaime thought back to what she had said about Tyrion, as he laid himself back on his bunk, staring at the ceiling. She had always hated Tyrion, and had never hidden that fact from anyone, especially not Tyrion himself. Jaime had always assumed that it had been because she blamed Tyrion for the death of their mother, something that he had always believed to be incredibly harsh.

But now it made a lot more sense.

Jaime thought of Tyrion, wherever he was, and felt a pang of loss and sympathy for his brother. Memories of his trial flooded into his mind, in particular his declaration to Tywin.

“ _I am guilty of being a dwarf._ ”

“ _You are not on trial for being a dwarf.”_

“ _Oh, yes I am. I’ve been on trial for that my entire life!”_

As Jaime lay on his bunk, he thought back over his brother’s life, the scorn and derision that he had suffered from on all sides, in particular from Cersei and Tywin. Despite having known about it, and being a witness to it many times, Jaime had been too self-involved, and too focused on Cersei, to realise the impact that it would have had on his brother.   

_Being so hated and reviled by your father and sister would make you angry,_ Jaime reasoned. _Angry enough to murder your own father? Maybe._

Jaime thought of Tyrion once more and felt a renewed rush of sympathy for him, but this time it was mixed with something else.

Understanding.

Jaime now understood why Tyrion had killed Tywin, how he had managed kill such a close family member.

Because he was feeling it too.

_I’m sorry, little brother,_ Jaime thought, as he remembered his voyage to Dorne with Bronn, where he had declared his intention to kill Tyrion for killing Tywin.

While Jaime might not have fully forgiven his brother for murdering their father, he at least understood why Tyrion would want to, especially given the murderous thoughts that Jaime now had for Cersei, and he now knew that Tyrion deserved the chance to explain his actions.

_I suspect these thoughts of killing Cersei are something that I share with Tyrion,_ Jaime pondered. _Although for differing reasons._

Jaime sighed deeply, turning on his side to gaze at the small slit window. He strained his ears to listen to the sounds outside, which appeared to have died out. Jaime hoped that whoever had been out there, showing their defiance to Cersei’s rule, were still alive, although he doubted it.

Jaime turned over again, trying to block everything out of his head, praying for sleep to take him. His mind, however, returned to Tyrion.

Jaime knew that he was with Daenerys Targaryen, who would soon be beginning her attempted conquest of the Seven Kingdoms, if she hadn’t already. Jaime couldn’t help but think that the Targaryen girl, along with her already sizeable army and dragons, now allied with the King in the North might have a good chance of winning.

_It seems that I will be seeing you soon, little brother_ , Jaime thought, with a smile. _I hope so. It seems like we have a lot to discuss._

*

A few days later, Jaime was still lying on the bunk. He spent the majority of his time simply lying on the bunk and staring at the ceiling, lost in his thoughts. Thoughts of Tyrion, of Cersei, of their father. He thought of Qyburn and the Mountain and his and Bronn’s failed assassination, and about the next plan that he would have to create, to make sure that his sister didn’t harm anyone again.

The noises from the city were growing in intensity and regularity, as not a day went by without the sound of another riot breaking out somewhere in the city. Jaime lay there, listening to the sounds of dozens of hopeless people desperately trying to make their situation better, fruitlessly battling the Lannister guardsmen. Although Jaime couldn’t see the outcomes, he knew that they likely ended with all of the rebels being slaughtered, and likely their families too.

The more he thought about it, the greater his rage and hatred for Cersei and Qyburn grew.

_How can they think that this is right?_ Jaime thought, as he tried to block out the desperate screams of the latest rebels as they were slaughtered. _How can they think that this will end well for them? Can’t she see that she is becoming more and more like the Mad King every day?_

Jaime’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening. He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sudden burst of light that flooded into the room.

After a moment, Jaime looked towards the door to see Qyburn and the Mountain standing there. Rage and hatred flooded through him at the sight, but there was also a feeling of confusion and curiosity.

Cersei wasn’t with them.

_What is he doing here?_ Jaime thought angrily, as he sat up to face him down. _Without Cersei?_

“Well?” Jaime snapped, not bothering to appear courteous. “What do you want?”

“I think it is past time that we talked,” Qyburn replied calmly, as though it were normal.

Jaime scoffed, as the man took a chair that the Mountain had been holding and sat down opposite him.

“What the fuck do you want?” Jaime asked again, more insistently.

“I want to know what you hoped to achieve,” Qyburn said. “With your little scheme that you and your friend Bronn devised.”

“You know what I wanted,” Jaime snarled. “I wanted you, and _that_ fucking monster, dead!”

“Oh, well,” Qyburn said, shrugging slightly. “I am a little disappointed. I would have thought you would try a little harder than that pitiful showing.”

Jaime scowled, suddenly realising the true reason why the man was here.

_He isn’t here to talk to me_ , Jaime thought angrily, clenching his hand into a fist. _He is here to taunt me, to goad me into a confrontation._

“Tell me something, Qyburn,” Jaime said, leaning forward slightly. “What do _you_ want? With all this influence that you have over my sister.”

“I want to help her,” he replied simply. “I want to help her rule over _her_ kingdom and destroy all of her enemies.”

“Yes, your plan to deal with Daenerys Targaryen was a masterstroke,” Jaime replied, laughing sarcastically. “You sent Euron Greyjoy, and the majority of his fleet, to attack the island and, in the process, we lost any hope of winning any battles at sea as well as our most experience naval commander. Well done!”

“I admit that it did not go according to plan,” Qyburn conceded, with a look on his face like it was chasing him physical pain to admit that Jaime was right. “So, I decided to refocus my efforts on advising Her Grace on keeping the peace in King’s Landing, something that I feel that I am better suited for.”

“You are fucking insane!” Jaime said, shaking his head in disbelief. “‘Better suited for’? So, you decide to starve the smallfolk? Experiment on those who defy you?”

“My experiments, as you call them, are needed. They have given us the Mountain back, someone who can solve many of Her Grace’s problems.”

“He’s a fucking abomination!” Jaime snarled, hearing the Mountain’s inhuman growl reverberate around the room in response. “The real Mountain died after fighting Oberyn Martell. And you should have left him that way.”

“But death isn’t the end, sometimes,” Qyburn said, leaning forward with a sickening glint to his eye. “Some people find their uses after their death. For the Mountain, it was to act as Queen Cersei’s sworn protector, and most loyal soldier.

“Your friend, Bronn, on the other hand,” Qyburn continued, smirking evilly. “He had other uses.”

Jaime’s heart sank at the man’s words.

“What the fuck have you done?” Jaime snarled, rising to his feet, causing the Mountain to take a few steps forward.

“Oh, do not worry,” Qyburn said, as he too rose to his feet, waving his hands dismissively. “I wasn’t able to bring him back, as I did the Mountain. No, the lack of a head seemed to be a big stumbling block on that.”

At this, he laughed loudly and Jaime was taken aback by the level of insanity that the man was able to possess.

“No, I merely used your friend’s body as a way to test some various potions and poisons that I was curious about. Their effect on certain internal body parts, for example.”

The true meaning of his words hit Jaime as though he had been hit with a warhammer.

“You-” Jaime said, his temper threatening to overwhelm him. “You defiled my friend’s body?”

“Yes,” Qyburn replied, smiling. “And he served more use then, than he ever did in life.”

Jaime snapped.

Not caring that the Mountain was there, Jaime flung himself at Qyburn, desperate to try and injure the man, to cause him some amount of the pain that he had inflicted on the countless number of people who had suffered in his experiments. Jaime saw Qyburn’s face be covered by a look of terror as he saw Jaime’s rage…

Before Jaime was seized around the throat by the Mountain.

Jaime felt the inhumanly strong grip tighten around his throat, stopping him from breathing as he felt himself being lifted into the air, his feet barely brushing the floor. Jaime saw his vision begin to blacken as his lungs burned from lack of air.

Just when the darkness was about to block out his vision, when Jaime was sure that the end had come for him, the Mountain flung him across the room. Jaime’s head cracked against the stone wall, nearly knocking him unconscious. Jaime lay there for a moment gasping, desperately trying to regain his senses.

After a moment, Jaime rose back to his feet in time to see Qyburn turn to leave. His anger not yet abated, Jaime called after him.

“Qyburn!” Jaime yelled hoarsely, his throat complaining after the pressure that it had been under. “This is why you came, isn’t it? To mock and taunt me over the sick experiment that you did to Bronn?

“Yes,” the maester replied, looking glad that Jaime had finally realised the truth. “I wanted to see your reaction.”

Jaime recoiled in horror at the man’s words, his hatred boiling up within him once more.

“I am going to kill you,” Jaime growled, as he took a step forward. “Do you hear me, maester? Even if it is the last thing that I do in my life, I will have your life.”

Qyburn merely laughed and left the cell, with the Mountain closing the door behind him, leaving Jaime alone in the darkness once more.


	23. Tyrion IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. Just a little forewarning: I HATE the Sand Snakes in the show (I haven't gotten that far in the books.)  
> I tried to write them differently, but I couldn't think of a different way that also explained their actions in Seasons 5 and 6, with little to no knowledge of their book plot. So I have had to write them as presented to us on the show: a little childish and completely stupid in their actions. So I don't think many of you will like them, lol.  
> I don't know how different they are in the books (by a lot, I hope!) so please do let me know in the comments.  
> Despite this, I hope you still enjoy the chapter  
> Next up will be a Dany chapter.

 

Tyrion

 

Tyrion awoke from his wine-induced sleep with a start, hearing the sound of a horn from the deck above him. Now he was awake, he became aware of some frantic knocking at the door to his cabin. Clearly someone had been trying to rouse him, but with no luck.

Ignoring the pounding in his head, Tyrion rose from his bunk and staggered over to the door, partly due to his mild intoxication and partly due to his inexperience at sea. Opening the door, Tyrion wasn’t surprised to see Varys standing there, looking down at him with curiosity and, unless Tyrion was imagining it, worry.

“Well,” Varys said, smirking slightly as he took in Tyrion’s appearance. “It would seem that you enjoyed yourself last night.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow in reply, trying desperately to stay upright.

“I’m guessing that we have arrived,” Tyrion said, beginning to head to the top deck, with Varys following. “Either that or you have decided that the only way to wake me was with a horn.”

Varys chuckled slightly before answering.

“We have arrived in Dorne,” he said. “But that is not a bad idea in fact. You _are_ difficult to rise when you have been drinking the night before, which is quite often.”

Tyrion didn’t reply, as he knew that Varys was right. He _had_ been drinking quite a lot recently, even more than usual. At first, he had drunk simply because he enjoyed it, but after the events of Dragonstone it had been simply so he could sleep.

If he didn’t drink, he would lie awake at night, with his brain churning with countless ideas and plans for the coming wars, against both the Lannisters and then the White Walkers, as well as wondering about the fate of Jaime in the Black Cells as well as Jon and Dany in the North. Drinking himself to sleep had actually allowed him to get some rest.

_If only there wasn’t such a headache in the mornings_ , Tyrion thought, as he shielded his eyes from the bright sunlight as he headed out onto the deck.

Once his eyes adjusted to the glare, Tyrion walked past Barbarro to look out towards the horizon, where Sunspear lay before them. Even from so far away Tyrion could see two large towers, one emblazoned with the Martell spear while the other covered with a large sun. Tyrion knew from his reading, as he had never been to Dorne due to the high tensions between the Houses of Martell and Lannister, that these were the Spear Tower and the Tower of the Sun.

Tyrion continued to take in the sights of Sunspear, from its large walls that surrounded it, to the Sandship, the ancient keep of the Martells, that had developed into the keep of Sunspear. As Tyrion continued to look, he became aware of how warm it had become.

_Clearly winter hasn’t reached this far south yet,_ Tyrion thought, as he mopped a thin layer of sweat from his brow.

A few hours later they managed to dock, with Tyrion, Varys and Barbarro leaving their ship first. Tyrion looked over his shoulder at the vast armada that had followed them from Dragonstone, all filled to the brim with Dothraki warriors, as well as a few noble houses, and felt a little more secure in their plan.

_We still have to join up with the bulk of the Martell and Tyrell forces,_ Tyrion reminded himself. _And if Jon can convince the North, then we should be able to win._

_If._

_A big word,_ Tyrion thought glumly.

As they disembarked from the ship, a messenger approached them.

“Lord Varys,” he said, in a thick Dornish accent, as he nodded to him.

The man then turned to Tyrion, and his expression changed from polite interest into looking like he was observing a dead animal.

“Lannister,” the man said, with a tone thick with distaste.

Tyrion sighed and shook his head. He had expected this, but that didn’t make it any easier to see. He knew that the Lannister name was spat upon in Dorne, for the events surrounding Elia Martell’s death, but Tyrion also knew that many of them would scorn him, as many of them would blame him personally for the death of Oberyn.

“Ellaria Sand and the Sand Snakes welcome you back to Dorne, Lord Varys,” the messenger said, returning his attention to Varys. “They await you, and the Lannister, at the Water Gardens, along with Lady Olenna Tyrell.

“Your men,” he continued, looking past them at the vast number of ships, “will be taken care of, have no worry about that.”

Tyrion followed the man’s gaze to see Randyll Tarly and Barbarro organising the troops. Even from this distance, Tyrion could see the tension between the two men, which had not dissipated since the Battle of Dragonstone. Tyrion had seen Tarly give the Dothraki a death glare every time they passed each other.

_It seems that the man holds a grudge,_ Tyrion thought, with a smile. _Something that I am sure Jon will be glad to hear of._

Amusing himself with the memories of Jon’s confrontation with Tarly on the beach at Dragonstone, Tyrion looked out over the vast camp of the mainly Dornish houses that they could see from their vantage point. He could see the black vulture sigil of House Blackmont, the golden hand on red and black of House Allyrion and the white sword and falling star on purple of House Dayne.

Impressed by the scale of the Dornish forces, he guessed around fifty thousand men, Tyrion turned and followed Varys into the carriage that the messenger was directing them too. Inside it was comfortably decorated, with plump cushions on the chairs, a table stocked with wine and food, as well as various incense candles burning, filling the carriage with sweet scents.

Tyrion poured himself a goblet of the wine and tasted it. He could tell immediately that it was one of the finest wines that Dorne produced. He settled himself into a chair with his wine, and began to dwell on what was to come.

Tyrion knew that neither Ellaria Sand, Oberyn’s paramour, nor the Sand Snakes, his children, would be very welcoming to him, as either a Lannister or, in their eyes, the reason that their father died in his Trial by Combat. Tyrion shuddered when he remembered Oberyn’s sickening screams as the Mountain gouged out his eyes before smashing his head apart with his bare hands.

There was silence in the carriage for a while, before Varys broke it.

“Not a very warm welcome,” Varys said, the shadows over his face flickering in time with the swinging candle holders above him.

“I expected nothing less,” Tyrion replied, sipping from his goblet. “The Lannisters aren’t popular around here, and I’m guessing that I will be less so.”

“Because of Oberyn?”

“I’m guessing that Oberyn’s lover and daughters won’t be too happy to see me.”

“Probably not,” Varys conceded, nodding. “But we are all on the same side, all trying to aid Daenerys in getting what is hers.”

Tyrion merely nodded glumly in response, not convinced that this would be enough to convince the Martells to be, at the very least, cordial with him.

Soon after the carriage came to a halt. Tyrion drained the goblet in his hand, savouring the sweet taste, as he raised himself from his seat. The door was opened from the other side and small set of steps were placed by the door to allow them to get down easier.

Tyrion got down from the carriage looked around him. The Water Gardens were set nearby to a large beach by, what Tyrion guessed, was the Summer Sea. Here the heat of the day was cooled by the wind coming in from the sea. Tyrion closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the salty breeze to cool his skin, before turning and following Varys and their guide into the Water Gardens.

Tyrion was impressed by the place. There was marble everywhere he looked, with large trees growing and throwing their shade all over the gardens, allowing respite from the insistent glare of the sun, even now in winter. Tyrion looked at the various fountains and gleaming pools of water as he passed them, all empty.

As they came to a stop, in front of a small canopy, he saw why the Gardens were so empty. Lady Olenna Tyrell sat around a small table, with a Tyrell bannerman holding the Tyrell rose aloft standing behind her. To her left was a dark haired, very beautiful woman that Tyrion recognised at Oberyn Martell’s lover, Ellaria Sand. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of Tyrion, who merely nodded back at her defiantly. Next to Ellaria sat three young women, all of whom bore a resemblance to Oberyn, in either looks or with the confidence that they showed.

_Ah,_ Tyrion thought, as he and Varys reached the table. _These must be the Sand Snakes._

All three of them wore clothes in the same shade of yellow that the surrounding guards wore, several of whom shifted angrily when Tyrion passed them, gripping their spears tighter. This did nothing to alleviate Tyrion’s apprehension over this meeting.

When Varys reached the table, he bowed low.

“Greetings Lady Olenna,” he said politely, turning to her. “I hope you are well.”

“I’m sitting in this stifling heat with these murderesses, getting ready to send many Tyrell men to their deaths to allow Daenerys Targaryen to get her throne back,” Olenna replied, with her characteristic bite in her voice. “Please let us skip the formalities, and foolish questions, Lord Varys.”

Tyrion smirked slightly at Olenna’s bluntness, as well as the looks of shock and angry on the faces of Ellaria and the Sand Snakes at her insult of them.

“Lady Olenna,” Tyrion said, quickly removing the smirk from his face. “Forgive the formalities, but it is good to see you again. Please let me offer my condolences for your losses.”

“My losses?” Olenna snapped, bristling slightly. “You mean the deaths of my grandchildren, the future of House Tyrell, that your sister destroyed in the Sept?”

“Yes,” Tyrion replied, leaning forward slightly. “But now we both have a reason to want my sister’s head on a spike.”

Olenna was silent for a moment, regarding Tyrion with suspicion, before she smirked slightly.

“I long for the day when I can see such a sight.”

“As do I,” Tyrion said, returning her dark smirk.

At this moment, Ellaria Sand rose from her seat.

“Welcome to Dorne, Lord Varys, Lord Lannister,” she said, putting as much scorn into Tyrion’s name as she could despite her air of politeness. “Allow me to introduce you to Oberyn’s children.

“This is Obara,” she said, indicating the eldest of the three, who also had the most vehemence in her glare towards Tyrion. He saw that she was wearing leather armour, unlike her sisters, which he thought was odd. Tyrion could tell, by her more muscled physique compared to her sisters, that she took after her father with her martial prowess.

“Nymeria,” Ellaria continued, standing behind the middle daughter. Tyrion looked at her and saw, interestingly, that she was looking more detached than her sisters, regarding Tyrion with interest and calculation rather than open scorn. He guessed, from various parts of her appearance that were slightly different from her sisters, that her mother was from the Eastern continent. She was winding something through the fingers on her right hand and Tyrion looked closer to see that it was the tip of a bullwhip, which was coiled under her chair.

“And this is my eldest daughter, Tyene,” Ellaria said, placing her hands on the shoulders of the last Sand Snake. She was quite petite, with a pretty face that smiled up at her mother with almost child-like happiness. Tyrion, however, was not taken in by the display, as Varys had warned him that each of the Sand Snakes were dangerous in their own way, and that Tyene was known to act innocent to lure people into a false sense of security.

“A pleasure to see you again,” Varys replied, bowing politely.

Tyrion merely nodded in response, knowing that anything he said would likely escalate the tension that he could feel emanating from Obara in particular.

“I have something for you,” Varys said, as he pulled a letter out from one of his pockets. “As a gift from Queen Daenerys.”

He handed it to Obara who, looking a little suspicious, opened it and began to read it.

“Queen Daenerys had legitimised the three of you, and your younger siblings, as Martells,” Varys explained, to the joy of the Sand Snakes and Ellaria, the shock of Olenna and the trepidation of Tyrion. “I know that you being bastard children wouldn’t be much of a problem here in Dorne, but this removes any problems that you would have had in Westeros as a whole.”

Tyrion watched as the Sand Snakes thanked Varys, while sharing looks of triumph, with a feeling of uneasiness. He hadn’t been fully behind this idea when Daenerys had brought it to their attention, clearly influenced by the tales of the loyalty shown to Jon, a well-known bastard.

However, Tyrion was also aware that the Sand Snakes were not Jon, they had not gained their current position due to inspiring loyalty among their people, they had gotten it by subterfuge and the murder of Doran Martell.

An act that Tyrion was shocked to hear from Varys, on their journey from Dragonstone, that Daenerys had no knowledge of.

“How can she not know that they killed their uncle to take control of Dorne?” Tyrion had demanded, complete shocked.

“Because I haven’t told her,” Varys had replied simply.

“Why not?”

“Because we need the Martells and the armies of Dorne,” Varys had said, folding his hands in front of him. “If Daenerys were told, then I imagine she would demand justice for Prince Doran’s death and we might lose the support of Dorne.”

Tyrion had merely shaken his head, completely amazed by Varys latest scheme, even though he knew that he shouldn’t be surprised.

_He is the Master of Whisperers after all,_ Tyrion had thought.

Tyrion looked between Varys and the now Princess Obara Martell and was struck by a sudden thought.

_What else is he hiding?_

A messenger approached and got Varys attention, before whispering into his ear. Varys then nodded, before bowing once more to those assembled around the table.

“If you will excuse me, I have received word from my birds,” Varys said, before hurrying away.

Tyrion watched him go, before turning his attention back to the table, where Ellaria had once more seated herself next to Obara.

“Be seated, Lannister,” she said, indicating to one of the vacant chairs.

Biting back a retort, Tyrion seated himself upon it, ignoring the furious glare from the new head of House Martell.

“I see that the armies of Dorne are ready to support Queen Daenerys’ forces,” Tyrion said, before turning to Lady Olenna. “I’m guessing the Tyrell forces are ready to do the same.”

“They are,” Olenna replied, nodding. “The majority of them remain in the Reach, to stop Cersei’s forces from following us through the mountains.”

As Tyrion nodded his approval, Obara leaned forward, with an angry look on her face.

“It is a shame that Queen Daenerys isn’t here,” she snapped, glaring at Tyrion. “And that we have to treat with the Lannister imp.”

Tyrion returned her glare, feeling his temper rising. Out of the corner of his eye, Tyrion couldn’t help but notice Nymeria rolling her eyes, clearly exasperated by her sister’s outburst.

“Well,” Tyrion growled back. “Queen Daenerys has gone north, with Jon Snow, the King in the North. A bastard who gained his title through the loyalty of his people, rather than murdering his own kin.”

There was a collective intake of breath from those assembled, and Tyrion took a vicious sense of satisfaction from the scandalised look on Obara’s face. He knew that he shouldn’t let his temper get the best of him, especially towards their allies and when he was surrounded by many people who despised him and his family name, but he was getting tired of their scorn of him for crimes that he hadn’t committed.

“Murder,” Tyene said silkily, leaning toward Tyrion, before her elder sister could speak. “A crime that you Lannisters know well.”

“I didn’t kill Elia,” spat Tyrion, now addressing the young woman. “The Mountain did, probably on my father’s orders. I wasn’t there during the Rebellion, was I? So, I can hardly be held accountable for that. In fact, you should be thanking me, as I was the one who killed Tywin.”

“What about Oberyn?” Ellaria said, looking angry now, a look matched by Obara.

“You know as well as I do, that I didn’t force Oberyn to fight for me in my Trial by Combat. He _chose_ to. You act as if I wanted him to die fighting the Mountain. His death meant my own, remember?”

“Whatever you intended, the outcome was still our father’s death,” Obara said, glaring furiously at him.

Tyrion looked at them, feeling both angry at their insistence but also completely baffled that they could continue with these circular arguments. A feeling he could see mirrored on the face of the Queen of Thorns, who was shaking her head slightly.

“What do the people think, by the way?” Tyrion asked. “About being ruled by the killers of the previous Prince.”

Ellaria, Obara and Tyene all laughed at this, with Nymeria also smirking slightly.

“They think that Lannister spies killed Doran,” Tyene said. “On orders from your sister.”

Tyrion’s eyes widened at this, although he could see the sense of it. It would convince all those who were still uncertain about joining with Daenerys against the Throne to join with them, for vengeance over Doran’s death.

_That’s useful to know_ , Tyrion thought, stopping himself from retorting and escalating the tensions even further.

At that moment, Varys returned to the table and stopped still, clearly recognising the high tempers around the table. He sat down next to Tyrion, and raised his eyebrows towards Tyrion curiously.

As soon as Varys had returned to his seat, Obara stood up.

“The forces of House Martell are Queen Daenerys’ to command,” she said. “They will be placed under the command of Lord Randyll Tarly, who Lady Olenna has told us is the best commander that Queen Daenerys has.

“And I don’t think that we have anything else to discuss without the Queen herself present, especially with the Imp,” she snapped as she turned to leave, and she was quickly followed by her sisters and Ellaria.

Tyrion watched them go with mixed happiness and confusion.

“Fools,” Olenna snapped. “They think that they are ready to rule a kingdom, and yet all I see is three spoiled children squabbling and pouting if they don’t get their way.”

Tyrion chuckled, as he grabbed a goblet from the table and filling it to the brim, fully agreeing with the comparison.

“I couldn’t agree more, Lady Olenna,” Tyrion said, raising his goblet to her in toast. “But they are in charge of Dorne, and we need the armies House Martell and their vassals.”

“The people we have to ally with to get what we want,” Olenna said, shaking her head slightly. “I hope Daenerys wins, to make all of this worth it. If I have to listen to those children babble on again, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“I’m sure that Queen Daenerys will win, my lady,” Tyrion heard Varys say, as he chuckled into his wine at the old lady’s disdain for the Sand Snakes. “House Tyrell will get the vengeance that it seeks.”

“Ha,” she said, shaking her head again. “I’m not sure that there will be much of House Tyrell left once this is over, and after I die.”

“I thought that there were plenty more who carry the Tyrell name?” Tyrion inquired, confused.

“What? The children of Loras and Margaery’s cousins, whose names I can’t even remember?  

“No,” she continued, as she got to her feet. “They are too weak, too easily led by the promise of glory. That is not the legacy I want to leave my House with. If they are the ones who will be left in charge, then maybe the Tyrell name _should_ die out with me.”

With this she left, the Tyrell bannerman following closely behind her, with Tyrion sharing a shocked look with Varys. There was silence left in the old lady’s wake, broken only by the sounds of the fountains behind them.

“So, I am gone for only a few minutes, and yet you managed to start a fight with the Martells,” Varys said, with an amused smile.

“They are determined to blame someone for the deaths of Oberyn and Elia and I, as the only Lannister that they have got nearby, seem to be the one that they have chosen to blame,” Tyrion said disdainfully.

Varys merely chuckled in response, and Tyrion was determined to move the conversation along, trying not to waste any more thought on the Sand Snakes.

“What news did you get from your birds?” he asked quickly, before Varys could continue.

Varys sighed, as he reached inside his pocket and pulled out a letter.

“From what they have said, the majority of my birds in King’s Landing have fallen under the wing of Qyburn, Cersei’s advisor,” he said sadly. “I still have a few that he doesn’t know about, but we must be more careful about how we get our information about Cersei now.”

Tyrion cursed under his breath. This was a real blow to them. He had been counting on Varys’ spies to feed them information about any potential troop movements from Cersei, but it seemed that they would have to do without, or at the very least it would be more difficult to get such knowledge.

Tyrion leaned back in his chair and rubbed his beard in frustration as he looked around the Water Gardens. As he did so, he was struck by a sudden realisation.

_Myrcella._

When Varys had told him of Prince Doran’s fate, he hadn’t mentioned what had happened to his son, Prince Trystane, Myrcella’s betrothed, or Myrcella herself.

“Well, that was very useful,” Tyrion said sarcastically as he got to his feet. “But I am going to see my niece.”

“Tyrion,” Varys said softly, as he gripped Tyrion’s forearm with a look of sadness on his face. “Myrcella isn’t here.”

“Then where is she?” Tyrion demanded, despite already having an idea.

He recognised the look on Varys’ face, the soft and comforting tone of his voice.

_She can’t be_ , Tyrion thought desperately. _Not her too. The Sand Snakes wouldn’t, they couldn’t, have done that._

“She’s dead, Tyrion,” Varys said, confirming Tyrion’s fears.

Feeling a rising feeling of grief in his gut once more, Tyrion sat back down his chair and coiled his hands into fists on the table top. He sat there for a moment in silence, before his anger rose to the surface and he slammed his fists down onto the table, making the various goblets and plates rattle against each other.

“How?” he demanded, his anger and grief making his voice shaky.

“From what my spies told me,” Varys said calmly. “Jaime and Bronn, at Cersei’s insistence, came to Dorne to ‘rescue’ Myrcella but they were caught and imprisoned. However, Prince Doran and his son were more level-headed than the Sand Snakes, and an agreement was struck between them to prevent hostilities. Trystane and Myrcella would return with Jaime to King’s Landing, with Trystane taking Doran’s place on the Small Council, that you negotiated as a part of Myrcella’s betrothal.

“However, when they were leaving, Myrcella was poisoned by Ellaria and the Sand Snakes, and Trystane was later killed by Obara.”

Tyrion shook his head in disbelief, as he felt his grief rise even further, constricting his chest, just like it had when he had heard about Tommen’s death.

“Why?” Tyrion demanded angrily. “Why would they kill her? She was innocent! She had done nothing to them!”

“I think they saw it as taking revenge against the Lannisters,” Varys offered quietly.

“So, they decide to kill a young girl!” Tyrion said furiously. “Someone who hasn’t harmed anyone, or anything, in her entire life. Someone who, like Tommen, was as completely different than the other Lannisters, especially their mother, as it is possible to be!”

Varys had no response, and simply sat in a respectful silence, allowing Tyrion to dwell on what he had heard. He couldn’t believe the compete stupidity and cruelty of the Sand Snakes that they would kill someone like Myrcella for the crimes of her family, when she had played no part in it.

However, something else came into Tyrion’s mind the more that he thought on it.

“How long have you known?” Tyrion demanded.

Varys looked at him sadly for a moment before answering.

“A while,” he said finally.

“Define ‘a while’,” Tyrion growled, getting angrier now.

“Since we arrived on Dragonstone.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Tyrion demanded. “You told me about Tommen!”

“I told you about Tommen because the cause of his death was Cersei, who we were already plotting to defeat, and it gave you extra motivation,” Varys explained. “If I had told you about Myrcella too, then you would have been distracted, with your vengeful thoughts towards the Martells. And we needed you focused, so you could help us negotiate with Jon Snow and the other lords. Can you truly say that you wouldn’t have been distracted by the knowledge that one of our allies was behind your niece’s death?”

Tyrion thought for a moment, before looking away, grumbling under his breath when he relied that Varys had a point. However, the spymaster reached out and grasped hold of his forearm firmly, causing Tyrion to return his gaze to him.

“I’m telling you _now_ , because we are in Dorne and you can act, to get the vengeance that you need.”

Tyrion looked back into the man’s eyes, his anger towards him tempered by a realisation that the man was serious.

“I say that as your friend, Tyrion. I know that you need to repay the pain that they have given you.

“However,” he continued, as his grip tightened slightly. “As Daenerys’ advisor, I need to tell you to be careful. We need the Martells and the armies of Dorne. So, be mindful of whatever actions you plan to take.”

Tyrion thought on Varys’ words later that night, as he lay awake staring at the moonlit ceiling of the chamber he had been given.

He rolled over onto his side and stared at the small dagger that he always had on his belt, and contemplated his revenge against the Martells.

Despite his anger towards them, Tyrion knew that he couldn’t simply kill them. His anger hadn’t blinded him to the fact that Varys was right: for their plan to work properly they would need the Dornish houses behind them.

Besides that, Tyrion knew that, because of the vast majority of the smallfolk thinking that the Lannisters killed Doran, if he killed the Sand Snakes and Ellaria, then doubt would be cast over his true allegiance that would be hard to disprove, despite his clear loyalty to Daenerys.

_“Be mindful of whatever actions you plan to take.”_

As Tyrion lay there, staring at his dagger, he decided that he would bide his time. There was no need to take immediate vengeance, as it would only serve to hamper their war effort.

_No,_ Tyrion thought, as he rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling once more. _I will wait, for the opportune moment to take my revenge._


	24. Daenerys IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. Sorry for the wait, I had a bit of a mental block while writing this. Once that cleared I took a little more time with it, to make sure that I got it just right because ... you'll see.  
> So, sorry again for the wait, but I hope you all enjoy it.  
> Next up will be a Sansa chapter, with THE moment you have been waiting for. (Well one of them anyway haha)

 

Daenerys

 

Dany stood on the deck of the _Wolf of the Sea_ , with Jon, Missandei and Jorah alongside her. She was staring out to the horizon, where the eastern shore of the North was visible, as they headed towards White Harbour. There was a rising feeling of excitement in Dany’s stomach at the sight, a feeling that was mirrored in both Jon and Jorah’s faces.

She had heard much about the North, from Tyrion and Varys during their lessons to her about the Seven Kingdoms and later from Jon, when he would tell her in detail about all of the various houses that had pledged themselves to him.

But they were not the stories that Dany preferred to listen to.

In the last few days, since their drink in Jon’s cabin, they had begun to share a small skin of wine every evening, in order to get to know each other better, which often resulted in them talking long into the night. Jon would tell her more about his childhood, and Dany was happy to see his usually sombre face break into laughter when he remembered all of the happy times that he had shared with his siblings before they had all left Winterfell.

He would speak the most about his brother Robb and his sister Arya, the two of his siblings that he had clearly been the closest with. However, he too had stories of how Bran, and later Rickon, would follow him and Robb around, particularly during their swordsmanship lessons with Ser Rodrik Cassel, and how he, Robb and Arya would scare Sansa in the crypts of Winterfell.

Dany liked listening to Jon’s stories of his family as, while she enjoying hearing and seeing Jon’s happiness over talking about his siblings, it also fuelled her desire to fulfil the promise that she had made to Jon, to make the Lannisters and Freys pay for all the sorrow that they had inflicted onto the Starks.

In return, Dany would tell Jon about her experiences throughout Essos. She told him of everything, from her wandering childhood with Viserys, to her time with the Dothraki and all the way to her landing in Dragonstone. There were times when she wondered if Jon would believe her. There were parts of her tale that Dany knew sounded unbelievable, with the birth of her dragons and her visions in the House of the Undying in particular sounding completely implausible.

However, Jon didn’t sound like he doubted a word that she said. He would merely nod his understanding before continuing to ask her more questions about her travels.

_If anyone could believe me,_ Dany thought, as she turned to meet Jon’s eye. _It is someone who has been through experiences that must consider mere stories._

Jon had told her again about his time with the Night’s Watch, this time in far more detail. Dany could sense the anger in his voice when he told her about his betrayal and death at the hands of his brothers. While Dany knew that it should be impossible for Jon to have died and then been resurrected from the dead, she found it hard to distrust him, to believe that he would lie about something as important as this.

Dany was brought from her thoughts when Missandei let out a small noise of surprise next to her. Dany turned to see her looking out over the rolling hills of the North in wonder at the snow that covered them. While Dany had seen snow once before, during her visions in the House of the Undying, she knew that Missandei had never seen anything like it.

“You have never seen snow before, my lady?” Jon asked her kindly.

“No,” Missandei replied, in a voice of wonder. “It is beautiful.”

Dany nodded her agreement as she tightened her grip on her furs against the increasing chill. While she had heard many people describe the North as a frozen, empty land, she couldn’t deny the beauty in the sights that her eyes laid upon.

Jon chuckled slightly before responding.

“The snows are something that I have known my entire life,” he said, looking out at the North with a contented expression on his face, clearly happy to be home. “It even snows in the summer here sometimes. I can’t imagine living my life without ever seeing it.”

Jon turned to face Dany, smiling warmly at her.

“And what do you think, Dany?” he asked, raising an eyebrow inquisitively at her.

“I agree with Missandei,” Dany replied, as she turned to look out over the North once more. “It is beautiful.”

As Dany continued to look out over the hills and woods of the North, she could feel Jon’s eyes lingering on her. Dany had grown accustomed to men staring at her, often with their lust so clear in their expression that is made her uncomfortable. Jorah, despite being her most trusted advisor and friend, had been guilty of this many times.

However, Dany couldn’t sense any of the blatant desire in Jon’s gaze that she had often seen in Jorah’s. She could only see a warmth that made her glad for his lingering gaze upon her.

_I have only seen that look on his face once_ , Dany thought as she looked towards him.

She remembered the almost hungry look on his face when they had been in his cabin a few days ago, the way his eyes had drifted down to her lips and had darkened slightly as he leaned towards her. Dany had been a little surprised by the level of her own desire in the moment, as she had only known Jon for a short time by then.

However, Jon’s honourable and loyal nature, despite all the sorrow and betrayal that he had suffered, his strength in battle and his leadership skills, in addition to the kindness that he showed, in contrast to his stoic demeanour, had quickly gained him Dany’s admiration. She was sure that, had there not been a clumsy deckhand above them that had broken the moment, the kiss that had been interrupted would only have been the start.

Other than Dany thanking Jon once more for his comfort when her feelings had overwhelmed her, neither of them had mentioned the events of that night. However, Dany knew that the desire that they both had for each other, that seemed to be known by everyone if Missandei’s happy smile whenever she would see Dany and Jon would speak was anything to go by, would be shown again before long.

It had been a long time since Dany had felt such affection for anyone.

While she had grown to care for Drogo after their forced marriage, Dany had, in the back of her head, the realisation that she hadn’t chosen to marry him, that she had been forced into it by her brother and that she had to make the best of her situation.

While Daario had helped Dany to keep her feelings of loneliness at bay during her time in Meereen, she couldn’t bring herself to care for him like she knew that she probably should. Their goodbye was still fresh in her mind, when she had felt nothing in leaving him behind in the Bay of Dragons while she sailed across the sea to claim the Iron Throne, despite his love for her clear.

With Jon, it was different.

Both Daario and Drogo had made their desire for her clear early on, and she had then been married to Drogo against her will. Neither of these were similar to Jon. The idea of a marriage pact between them to seal their alliance, while expected from everyone, had only come when Varys had suggested it. Whenever it was mentioned Jon looked uncomfortable with the idea, especially since she had explained the circumstances around her marriage to Drogo. Dany was sure that, if she had asked him, he would have said that the marriage pact was unnecessary, and unneeded, to secure their alliance.

And yet, Dany was not fully opposed to the idea.

The more time that she spent with Jon, the greater her admiration and affection for him grew. As Dany stood on the deck and looked at him, she knew that any marriage pact between them wouldn’t be purely for political gain, like she had envisioned when she had left Meereen.

Dany brought herself back to the present and, after seeing Missandei’s knowing smile, averted her eyes from Jon to look towards Jorah. The man’s face was covered by a look of both happiness and apprehension.

“It must be nice for you, Ser Jorah,” Dany said, causing him to jolt slightly in surprise. “To be home after so long.”

He turned to her and smiled.

“It is, my Queen,” he replied, smiling. “It has been far too long.”

However, at Jorah’s words, Dany saw Jon stiffen slightly, which only increased her curiosity even more. She had noticed the tension between the two of them during the journey from Dragonstone and, while she had been curious, she had assumed that it had something to do with the fact that Jorah had fled into exile to prevent himself being execute by Jon’s father.

However, as she looked between the two of them, Dany wondered if Jorah’s reputation throughout the North would be an issue. Dany was well aware that Jorah’s crimes were no secret throughout the North, and would definitely be no secret from his family.

_I will need to speak to Jon about it_ , Dany decided, as her eyes wandered back to him. _To decide between us what to do about him._

The opportunity to do so came a few hours later, when the ship was preparing to dock in White Harbour. Dany headed back up onto the deck to see that Jon was already there, looking out towards White Harbour. Ghost was standing next to him, looking out towards the shore, as if he too was glad to be home.

Smiling slightly, Dany walked up to join him and followed his gaze. She gasped slightly at the sight of White Harbour, with its stark white buildings, including the towering keep set high upon the hill. As they grew closer, Dany’s eyes were drawn to the large rock that protruded from the sea in the harbour and then, the dark stone keep that had several smaller, white buildings protruding from it.

“It is very impressive,” Dany said, as she came to stop next to Jon and petted Ghost, who had begun to warm to her during the journey from Dragonstone.

Jon turned to her and smiled slightly at her words.

“It is,” Jon agreed. “I’m sure Lord Manderly will be glad to hear that you think so.”

 As he said this, Jon’s face changed from amusement to apprehensive. Dany looked back at him curiously, wondering what could have caused such a shift in his mood. As Dany was about to ask him, Jon spoke.

“Dany, I just wanted to warn you,” he said. “The Targaryen family isn’t well regarded in the North, particularly after the Rebellion. I don’t know how warmly you will be received here.”

Dany nodded in response, having expected as much. She had known all along that she would have to do a lot to change the perception of her family as a result of her father’s actions, and the North had suffered heavily at the hands of Targaryens. Both Rickard and Brandon Stark had been murdered at the order of her father and Lyanna had been taken by Rhaegar, or so they thought.

“I understand,” she said, nodding toward him. “I know that I will have to do a lot to show them that not all Targaryen’s are mad.”

“It won’t take long for them to see that you are not,” Jon said encouragingly. “That will reassure them. Any of them that are still cautious should be won over by you granting the North independence.”

“Should?” Dany questioned, raising her eyebrows.

Jon sighed at this, shaking his head slightly.

“We have a saying,” he said, as he met her eyes. “The North Remembers.

“Your father’s actions weren’t all that long ago, Dany,” Jon continued, as he leaned towards her slightly. “Even if they were, the Northerners have long memories. It isn’t going to be easy to win them over.”

Dany sighed slightly and nodded in response. She had expected as much, but it was still disappointing to hear.

“Will it be the same with Jorah?” Dany asked.

Jon sighed again, before nodding.

“Aye,” he replied. “His crimes are not exactly a secret, Dany. I doubt that he will be well received by anyone, least of all his family. He brought great shame to his family and the current head of House Mormont, Lady Lyanna, is not known for hiding her opinions.”

Dany looked away from Jon to look out at White Harbour.

_It looks like this might be a little more complicated than we expected,_ Dany thought glumly.

Before either of them could say any more, they were joined by Jorah, Grey Worm, Missandei and Mikken. As the old man came up the steps, puffing heavily as he leaned on his cane before being supported by Jorah, Dany felt a rush of sympathy and affection for the old man.

When he had asked if he could accompany her on her journey, Dany had initially been wary. While she knew that his wife and children had already passed away, Dany felt reluctant to uproot him from his life on Dragonstone and take him with her to the North. However, the man had insisted and she had relented in the face of his stubborn determination.

Hearing his stories about Rhaegar and his children had allowed Dany to focus on something else, particularly after a bad day, while she had been on Dragonstone.

_I have a feeling that I might be having a few more of those_ , Dany thought wryly, as she returned her gaze to White Harbour.

Before long, the _Wolf of the Sea_ docked in the harbour and Dany looked around in amazement. It appeared that every resident of the city was there to greet them.

_To greet Jon_ , Dany corrected herself. _He is their king._

Dany turned towards Jon and, to her surprise, saw that he looked very uncomfortable as he headed off the boat onto the pier, with Dany and the others following behind him.

“The King in the North!” came the collective shout of the assembled crowd.

Dany looked around her and saw that they had all gone down on one knee in deference to Jon. Dany shared a surprised look with Missandei, who was just as amazed by this display of loyalty as Dany was.

Two men walked towards Jon, both equally large in their bulk, one with a large white beard while the other had a large moustache. As the younger of the two approached, clearly the son, Dany saw Jon’s friend Tormund take a step forward, while fixing the man with a glare. While the man recoiled slightly at the sight of the wound on Tormund’s cheek, which the Wildling seemed to take amusement from, he too glared back at him.

_There is clearly some bad blood here,_ Dany thought, as she looked between the two of them, wondering what could have caused it.

Jon seemed to realise the rising tensions, so he stepped between them, breaking their eye contact. The two men went down on one knee before Jon, before the elder of the two spoke.

“Welcome back to the North, King Jon,” he said, as rose back to his feet, at Jon’s insistence. “It would seem that you were successful in your journey.”

“Thank you for this welcome, my lord,” Jon said, as he shook hands with Manderly and his son. “Lord Manderly, allow me to introduce our guest, Queen Daenerys Targaryen.

“Daenerys,” Jon said, as he turned to face her. “This is Lord Wyman Manderly and his son and heir, Wylis.”

Dany stepped forward to take Lord Wyman’s extended hand, and the man bowed his head respectfully as he took her small hand in his much larger one.

“My lady, welcome to White Harbour,” he said, as he released her hand.

“Thank you, my lord,” said Dany, noticing that Wylis seemed to be regarding her a little nervously. “White Harbour is most impressive.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Lord Wyman replied politely, inclining his head respectfully.

Dany then turned to shake the proffered hand of Wylis Manderly, her warm smile seeming to ease his nerves. Before she could say anything more, there was a loud screech of her dragons from high above them. The sound sent a ripple of panic and fear through the assembled crowd.

Dany turned to see that her three children were circling above her and was vaguely aware that every eye in the city was on them, as they swirled around each other, playfully nipping at the flank of the one in front of them.

Seeking to put them at ease, Dany addressed Lord Manderly.

“These are my children, Lord Wyman,” Dany said firmly, drawing his attention. “But have no fear, they will not harm you or your people. I have instructed them to leave you all unharmed.”

“And they understand you?” Wylis asked incredulously.

“Oh yes,” Dany replied, smiling. “My children are very intelligent.”

At this, the dragons gave another screech before swooping off inland, clearly desperate to explore the snowy landscape. Once the dragons were out of sight, Dany felt a collective relieved sigh from everyone.

Lord Manderly turned to Jon, clearly trying to get back on track after their distraction.

“Your Grace, the men you requested have been sent to Torrhen’s Square and Moat Cailin. They have repelled several small Ironborn incursions along the Stony Shore, but we have suffered very few casualties.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Jon responded, looking little uncomfortable again. “But I am afraid that I have to ask your aid once more. Once we arrive back in Winterfell, I will be calling the banners. We will be marching south with Daenerys to help her in retaking the Iron Throne, and to make the Lannisters and Freys pay for what they have done to the North.”

At Jon’s words, Dany could sense an initial uneasiness ripple through the crowd, for them having to send off their fighting men to aid her regain the throne, but it was quickly joined by some muttered approval over gaining vengeance.

“My men are yours to command, my king,” Lord Manderly said, with a bow. “And it is long past time that the Freys and Lannister paid for their crimes against your brother, and all of the men and woman who died at the Red Wedding.”

At the mention of the Red Wedding, Dany heard the muttered approvals grow in number and volume, along with several shouts of ‘The North Remembers’. Jon took a step forward and placed a hand on Lord Manderly’s shoulder.

“Thank you, my lord,” Jon said, and Dany could hear the relief and gratitude in his voice. “The Starks won’t forget this.”

Lord Wyman waved away his thanks, before addressing them both.

“We have prepared a feast for your arrival,” he said, looking between them. “It has been a long time since we have had _two_ rulers in White Harbour.”

As he said this, the Lord turned and beckoned for them to follow him. Jon fell into step alongside them, being drawn into a conversation with Wylis Manderly. Dany fell into step next to Lord Wyman, hearing him explaining the various sights around White Harbour, from the Seal Rock to the Wolf’s Den.

As Dany listened to Lord Manderly, she looked around at the assembled inhabitants of White Harbour, who were observing her with looks of uneasiness and, in some cases, anger. Dany remembered her talk with Jon aboard the ship and, with a horrible sinking feeling in her gut, realised the truth in his words, as she saw it for herself.

_I wonder what they have heard about me?_ Dany thought. _And what will I have to do, to make them see that I am not the monster my father was?_

*

A few days later they left White Harbour, with Lord Manderly sending word to all of his fighting men for them to prepare themselves. Jon told Dany that the journey to Winterfell would take a few days, but she didn’t mind, as it would give her more time to see the North as they travelled.

As they travelled northwards, Dany spent much of her time riding with Missandei and Jorah, with the Northman telling Dany about what they saw, from the White Knife to the far off Wolfswood, with him clearly relishing being home after so long.

Jon spent much of his time deep in discussion with Lord Manderly, with the lord telling him about anything that had transpired in his absence. Now that they were back in the North, Dany knew that Jon would find himself being pulled this way and that by his various vassals, as they demanded his attention to any problems that they had.

And yet, Dany was surprised to see that Jon kept their nighty ritual of sharing a cup of wine on the first night of their travel, now in her tent while they travelled North. When he came into her tent, carrying a small skin of wine and two goblets, Dany saw that he had a wide smile on his face.

“What has caused you to be this happy, Jon?” Dany asked, as he took his seat and filled their goblets.

Jon drained half of his goblet, before he answered, his smile only widening.

“Lord Manderly has just told me that Arya and Bran are waiting at Winterfell. They both returned while I was away.”

Dany smiled back at him, a feeling of happiness flowing through her. She knew from their discussions about their families, just how much his siblings meant to him. So, Dany knew just how happy he must be feeling now that two of them, both thought lost, were returned home.

“Jon, that’s wonderful,” she said, as she gripped his forearm. “I look forward to meeting them.”

Jon smiled back at her, before looking off into space for a moment, clearly lost in his thoughts, no doubt envisioning the moment he arrived back home to find all of his siblings waiting for him.

“Could you tell me more about them?” Dany asked, causing Jon to return his gaze to her. “I would like to know as much as I can before I meet them.”

Jon smiled and nodded. He began telling her more stories about them, including one from just before they all left Winterfell, where they had last been a family, where Arya and Bran had both shown off their archery skill, with differing results.

They spoke for over an hour, with the wine between them steadily decreasing, before they fell silent for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts. While she was happy for Jon, she couldn’t help but feel a little jealous. Her whole life, the only family that she had ever known was Viserys, who hurt her in many different ways.

Not for the first time, Dany wondered what it would have been like if Rhaegar had survived. From what she had heard of him, Dany knew that he wouldn’t have been cruel and abusive to her like Viserys had been. Dany wondered what it must be like to have a supportive and caring family around her, to help her through the hard decisions that she had made.

Her thoughts then drifted to Rhaegar’s son, Jaehaerys, her only living family member.

_I need to find him, wherever he is_ , Dany thought resolutely.

“So, Dany,” said Jon, suddenly, interrupting her thoughts. “What do you think of the North so far?”

“The cold takes some getting used to,” Dany said, as she gripped her furs tightly, causing Jon to laugh.

“I suppose it would do,” he said, chuckling. “It is even colder north of the Wall though.”

Dany involuntarily shivered at the thought before continuing.

“Apart from that, I think that the North is wonderful. The country is beautiful and the people seem to be very loyal to their king. That was quite a welcome you received in White Harbour.”

Seeing the uncomfortable look on his face once more, Dany chuckled slightly.

“You are still getting used to it, aren’t you?” Dany asked, as she refilled her goblet.

“Aye,” Jon replied, nodding. “It wasn’t all that long ago when I was only seen as Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell. Now all these people, lords and commoners alike, all bow to me whenever I pass them.”

“It does take some getting used to,” Dany conceded, patting his forearm sympathetically. “But it must be nice to see that all those people respect and support you, in return for everything that you have done for them.

“I only hope that I can do the same for the people of Westeros,” Dany said, as she looked into her goblet.

“You will,” Jon replied confidently.

“How can you be so sure?” Dany asked.

“Because you already have,” Jon said simply. “How many Houses have already allied themselves with you? And the Dothraki and the Unsullied follow your commands without question, apart from Barbarro’s foolishness during the battle. Neither of them are known for following just _anyone_ , are they?

“You will be fine, Dany,” he said, looking into her eyes.

Dany sighed, realising that he was right.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” she said. “You are right. It’s just that, when I saw all those people looking at me with anger and suspicion, it just made wonder, like I often have, will these people just see me as the Mad King’s daughter?”

“Dany,” Jon said comfortingly, as he gripped her hand gently. “You are _nothing_ like your father. Give them time, and they will see it too. It won’t take them long. I promise you.”

Dany looked back into Jon’s eyes and smiled gratefully at him, while gripping his hand back in turn. Dany marvelled for a moment how Jon, like Tyrion, managed to find the right words to ease her doubts, even one of her longest and most deeply held fears, despite only knowing her for a matter of weeks at this point.

After a moment, Jon released her hand and moved to seal up the wine skin, before standing up to leave.

But Dany wanted more.

She stood up in front of him, her eyes becoming level with his nose, and took a step towards him. Jon’s expression changed to one of understanding, once he realised what she was doing. Dany titled her head towards him, looking him in the eye, and, making sure to leave no doubt in his mind what she wanted, took another step forward until her bust was inches from his chest.

Dany’s persistence was rewarded when his expression changed once more, and the hungry look of desire was back on his face as he looked down at her, causing Dany’s stomach to jolt pleasantly. Seizing the moment, Dany leaned up on her toes and their lips connected.

Jon stood there for a moment stunned, before he relaxed and eased into the kiss, causing Dany to have a feeling of victory. She placed a hand onto his chest and the other on the side of his neck, gently pulling him towards her as she pushed her tongue towards his lips, which opened to allow her access.

As their tongues met and began to writhe against each other, Dany felt Jon’s hands move to grip her. One went behind her head and Dany could feel him gently pulling her further into him, while the other pressed into the small of her back. She moved her hips forward at his touch until their bodies were level against each other.

They stayed that way for a moment, with Dany feeling Jon’s beard scratch against her chin and around her mouth, before he pulled their lips apart. He didn’t remove his hands from her however, he merely leaned his head forward until their foreheads touched and he stayed there for a moment longer, his eyes closed, breathing deeply.

“I have a few things to deal with before I retire to sleep,” Jon said, his voice low and Dany could sense the reluctance there.

He looked into her eyes for a moment and Dany felt his hand move from the back of her head to cup her cheek, and she felt his calloused skin against her own.

“Good night, Dany,” he said.

“Good night,” she replied, as she leaned forward to kiss him gently once more.

Jon turned to leave and Dany, despite not getting exactly where she had wanted, felt a feeling of success. She now knew that, despite his seeming reluctance, her desire for him was matched in kind.

Dany stood there, breathing deeply as her heart, which had been hammering in her chest only moments before, slowed down. As Jon left the tent, he turned back to face her and smiled warmly at her, causing her stomach to give another happy jolt.

After Jon had left, Dany sighed happily before turning to get some rest.

*

The rest of the journey passed without incident. Around noon on their second day of travel they reached the crest of a large hill and, once they had reached the top Dany looked out to see a large keep on the horizon.

Dany took in the sights of its tall keep and several towers, all made of dark grey stone. From their position, they could see a smaller, squat keep that was clearly older than the rest of the castle, as well as the large walls that surrounded the keep. She could just, if she strained her neck, see the tops of some trees, that she assumed was the godswood that Jon had told her about. She was curious to see it as she had never seen a godswood before, let alone been in one.

As Dany gasped in surprise at the sight, she felt Jon stop next to her.

“Impressed?” he asked, smiling slightly at the look on her face.

“This is Winterfell?” Dany asked, and Jon nodded in response. “It is incredible.”

“I’m glad you think so,” he said, as they moved on.

As they grew closer to the keep, Dany became more and more aware of the scale of Winterfell. It soon loomed over them and, if she hadn’t known that it was full of allies, Dany would have found the sight a little foreboding.

As they grew nearer and nearer to the keep, Dany could sense Jon’s impatience and excitement. He was riding at the front of the group, setting the pace for them all. Dany smiled a little at his determination, knowing how long he had waited for the reunion he was anticipating.

As they reached the gates and were about to enter Dany turned in her seat to look for any signs of her dragons. While there was no sign of them, Dany wasn’t worried. They had often disappeared for long periods of time and always found their way back. She had wanted them to be presented to the people of Winterfell when she arrived, so she could ease their fears.

As they entered the keep, Dany heard Ghost give a yelp before sprinting off in front of them, towards another direwolf. This one was a little smaller than Ghost, with grey fur instead of his pure white. The two of them clashed before rolling around together, clearly overjoyed to be reunited.

Dany looked around her, seeing the assembled people clearly happy for Jon’s safe return and looking, like those in White Harbour, a little unsettled by her presence. Dany attention fell to the three people in the middle of the courtyard.

In the middle was a tall, beautiful, auburn haired young woman who, Dany assumed from her talks with Jon, must be Sansa. To Sansa’s left was another younger girl, this one about a head shorter than her, whose features were so similar to Jon that Dany would have known they were siblings without being told. On Sansa’s other side was a clearly tall young man, although he was seated in a large chair.

_Sansa, Arya and Bran_ , Dany thought, as she turned to see Jon’s look of happiness as his horse came to a stop.

As Jon dismounted from his horse, Dany saw Arya race forward towards him. He hadn’t even made two steps towards her when she reached him, flinging herself into his arms. Jon staggered back a pace at the impact, but he soon righted himself before hugging his sister back with such vigour that her feet left the ground.

As Dany saw Jon press a kiss to his sister’s forehead, he began to move towards his other siblings. Jon half-carried, half-pulled Arya along with him as he made his way towards Bran. When he reached him, Jon stooped down and wrapped his free arm around his little brother’s neck, pulling him into their embrace, with Sansa joining soon after.

Dany watched the emotional reunion between the siblings from afar, not wanting to interrupt. and, with their conversations about their families running through her mind, she felt a rush of happiness for Jon. She looked to her left and saw that Missandei, too, was watching the Stark reunion with a wide, beaming smile on her face.

After a moment, the four Stark broke apart and Dany could see that all four of them had matching wide smiles. Jon turned towards her and, after their eyes met, Dany knew that she could approach them now and she dismounted from her horse, seeing Missandei and Jorah do the same.

As she walked towards Jon, she noticed that the looks of uneasiness of the assembled crowd weren’t all directed at her. In fact, Dany soon saw that most of them were in fact directed towards Jorah, in particular from a small, dark haired girl who stood under a standard bearing the bear sigil of House Mormont.

_That must be Lyanna Mormont_ , Dany thought, as she examined the furious look on the face of the young girl. _Jon was right. Jorah won’t be welcomed back with open arms._

Dany came to a stop in front of Jon and the Stark siblings. After sharing a small smile with Jon, he stepped forward slightly.

“Daenerys, allow me to introduce you,” he said. “My sisters, Sansa and Arya, and my brother, Bran.”

“It is wonderful to meet you all,” Dany said, bowing her head slightly. “I have heard a lot about you.”

Sansa stepped forward and extended her hand.

“Queen Daenerys,” Sansa said, smiling warmly at her. “Welcome to Winterfell.”


	25. Sansa II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. Just a little behind the scenes note, I normally take a day or two between chapters to do other stuff, so I can come back more refreshed for the next chapter.  
> But this time I couldn’t wait, so I went straight into writing this one. I am as hyped for this chapter to be up as you all, so I hope it does live up to the hype.  
> There is a little bit more of the Telltale games story in here, but I hope that those who haven’t played it aren’t too lost. If you are, please feel free to ask in the comments and I will be happy to explain.  
> Next up will be Jon, and we will see some of the fallout and his thoughts over the reveal.

 

Sansa

 

“Welcome to Winterfell.”

As Sansa heard Daenerys thank her for their hospitality, she took the moment to examine their guest. She had heard many stories about the renowned beauty of the Dragon Queen and Sansa had to admit that they were true. She was quite petite, with long silver hair and striking violet eyes.

_The classic Targaryen look,_ Sansa thought, as she shared a look with Arya. _What other Targaryen traits does she have?_

Before she could think more about it, Dany spoke again, drawing her attention.

“Winterfell is very impressive, Lady Sansa,” the Dragon Queen said, with genuine enthusiasm in her voice.

“Thank you, Queen Daenerys,” Sansa said politely, bowing her head slightly. “It is an honour to have within our walls.”

“Please, Lady Sansa,” Daenerys said kindly, raising her hand. “You do not need to use my title here. We are in your kingdom. Here your brother rules, not me.”

At this she turned to Jon and gave him an affectionate smile which, to Sansa and Arya’s mutual confusion, he returned. Sansa looked between her brother and Daenerys, wondering just what could have happened between them to cause such a public display of warmth and companionship.

To prevent any awkward questions over her clear confused and incredulous look, Sansa averted her gaze to look at Daenerys’ companions. One was an attractive woman whose exotic look gave Sansa the impression that she was from the Eastern continent, where Sansa knew that Daenerys had come from. The other was a tall man, with a scruffy beard who, from first impressions, Sansa took for a Northerner.

Her suspicions were confirmed when she looked past him and her eye was caught by Lyanna Mormont, who was glaring at the man with poorly disguised contempt. Furrowing her brow in confusion once more, Sansa now looked between Lyanna and the man, wondering about the connection between them.

When she remembered.

In her conversations with Lady Lyanna the young lady had mentioned a ‘Jorah’, a former head of House Mormont who had brought disgrace upon her family. Once she had heard the name, Sansa was sure that it had sounded familiar but for several hours she couldn’t place why.

Eventually she had remembered overhearing her father speaking about how Jorah had sold poachers on his land into slavery, causing Eddard to declare that he would be executed for his crime.

_So, is this him?_ Sansa wondered, looking the man in the face.

As if to answer her question, Daenerys took a step back from them.

“Allow me to introduce my companions,” she said.

“This is Missandei, my handmaiden and loyal friend,” she continued, indicating the young woman, who meekly bowed her head in deference, with Sansa and her siblings mirroring her action out of courtesy.

“This is Grey Worm, the leader of my Unsullied,” Daenerys said, indicating to a lean, leather clad man, wielding a long spear and shield. At Daenerys’ introduction the man took a step forward and removed his helm, to reveal a shorn head and an almost emotionless face. The man inclined his head towards them, almost imperceptibly, before taking a step back to retake his place.

“And, finally,” Daenerys continued, and Sansa could detect a note of uneasiness in her voice, “this is Ser Jorah Mormont.”

At her words, an outbreak of muttering rippled through the assembled lords and, from a quick glance at their faces, all of which were covered with anger and disgust, Sansa could see that none of them were going to be welcoming Ser Jorah home with open arms. Sansa could see Ser Jorah shift on his feet slightly, clearly uncomfortable with the hostility that he was receiving. Sansa looked towards Jon and, when he caught her eye, he gave a knowing nod and shrug, indicating that he had expected nothing less.

After a moment of awkward silence between them, which was often broken by further outbreaks of furious mutterings and barely audible curses directed towards Mormont, Sansa stepped forward to attempt to alleviate the tension.

“Daenerys,” she said, loudly enough for her voice to carry around the courtyard but not enough that it would appear hostile. “Would you care for a tour of Winterfell? I would be honoured to personally show you our home.”

Daenerys turned to Sansa, her face brightening. Whether it was out of genuine enthusiasm for the idea or relief that she and her companions would be away from the hostile glares of the Northern lords, Sansa wasn’t sure.

Sansa saw that Jorah too looked relieved at this development and the assembled lords begun to mutter among themselves rather than openly showing their scorn.

“Sansa, Daenerys,” Jon said, as he turned towards them. “I hope that you will both excuse me, but I fear that I cannot join you.

“I would like to aid in showing Daenerys around Winterfell but,” Jon then looked down to Bran and Arya, and Sansa could see his grip on their shoulders tighten slightly, “I think that the three of us have some catching up to do.”

Sansa nodded in response, smiling back at him. To her surprise, Sansa saw Daenerys looking over a Jon, with a look of happiness on her face.

“Of course, Jon” she said softly, looking into his eyes for a moment. “I know how long you have waited for this.”

Sansa stood there for a moment, looking between Daenerys and her brother, seeing similar warm smiles on each face, before they turned away from each other to move on their way. Suddenly the realisation of what she was seeing hit her, causing her to break into a wide well.

_Well, well, Jon,_ Sansa thought wryly, as she watched him prepare to enter the keep with Arya and Bran, who was being carried by a few guardsmen. _You leave to gain an alliance with Daenerys, and you come back with that and the admiration of the Dragon Queen herself._

As the three of them passed by her, Sansa caught Arya’s eye and could tell, by the way her sister rolled her eyes disdainfully at her as she passed, that she too had noticed the connection between their brother and Daenerys. Sansa chuckled slightly, knowing that if anyone was going to notice it, it would be Arya. After all, she had been the closest to Jon out of all of them.

Sansa was brought from her thoughts, when Daenerys stood in front of her, smiling expectantly. Sansa turned to face her, being vaguely aware the assembled lords were too beginning to disperse. All except Lady Mormont, who was continuing to glare at the Jorah’s back with such fury that Sansa was a little surprised that he hadn’t felt the heat of it against the back of his neck.

Sansa smiled politely at Daenerys and offered the queen her arm. Daenerys looked at the proffered arm for a moment, looking a little confused by the gesture, before breaking into a smile and taking it.

Sansa had decided on this gesture partly because of her lessons with Septa Mordane, on how to be a gracious host when welcoming a lady into her home.  However, it was also partly because she, out of concern for her brother, wanted to see just what about Daenerys had seemed to fascinate Jon so much, and Sansa decided that showing kindness was the best way to see just what kind of a person she was.

For the next few hours, Sansa showed Daenerys and her companions every inch of Winterfell, from the maester’s tower and the small sept that her father had built for their mother to the First Keep and the cavernous crypts, filled with the stone visages of countless Starks.

Daenerys proved to be an enjoyable companion during the walk, listening to Sansa’s explanations with rapt attention, and asking many questions about the keep with what appeared to be genuine interest in her voice.

Sansa listened carefully to her whenever she spoke, carefully examining her every word. And to Sansa’s surprise and relief, Daenerys did not appear to be the monster that many Northerners would expect her to be, being a child of the Mad King.

Sansa’s curiosity was also piqued when Daenerys, when passing through the glass gardens, took a clear interest in the blue winter roses that grew there. Sansa looked on as she, with an expression of curiosity and, unless Sansa was mistaken, recognition, brushed her fingers along its frost-blue petals. Sansa looked on for a moment, unsure whether she should inquire further. Before she could say anything, Daenerys turned back to her, all of her mysterious expressions gone, so Sansa decided to leave it be for now.

They then moved to the godswood and Sansa couldn’t supress a smile at the looks of shock and awe on both Daenerys and Missandei’s faces while they walked beneath the dense canopy of branches before coming to a halt in front of the heart tree.

“This is amazing,” Daenerys whispered, as she brushed her fingers over the pale white bark of the tree.

“It is a heart tree, a part of the religion of the Old Gods,” Sansa explained, as she took a step forward to feel the smooth bark beneath her hand.

“What is it for?” Missandei asked quietly.

“It is where we pray,” Sansa responded. “My father used to say that no man can lie while near a heart tree, as the gods can always tell when a man is lying.”

“What kind of tree is this?” Daenerys asked inquisitively. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It is a weirwood tree. There aren’t very many left in Westeros, as many were cut down and burned during the Andal invasion. They mainly grow here and even further north, beyond the Wall. Many of the other godswoods in Westeros use other trees as their heart tree. In King’s Landing, they have carved the face into an oak.”

“Do you all worship the Old Gods?” Daenerys asked, looking towards Sansa.

“Yes,” Sansa replied. “But my mother made sure that Bran, Arya and I, along with Robb and Rickon, knew about the Faith of the Seven, but we all worshipped them differently. I worship both but I did follow my mother in placing more faith in the Seven, while Robb and Bran took to the Old Gods more, the religion of Father. Rickon was a bit too young to understand it all and Arya…”

Sansa chuckled slightly and paused for a moment, unsure why she was telling this to a group of virtual strangers. However, now that she had started, she found it hard to stop, with the words pouring from her despite the dull ache that had formed in her gut as she thought of her lost family.

“Arya was never really interested in any of the gods,” Sansa finished quickly.

“What of Jon?” Daenerys asked. “I know that he worships the Old Gods, but he never said if he followed the Seven as well.”

“No, Jon never followed the Seven. He and Mother never really got along, with him being another woman’s child, so she didn’t show him the Faith of the Seven.”

Silence fell between them, as Missandei and Jorah continued to examine the godswood, as Sansa immediately pushed away her grief, stubbornly not allowing it to break down the resolve that she had built to prevent her from feeling the loss, which at times was sill as raw and clear as it had ever been, despite the passage of years.

Realising that staying the godswood would not help her maintain her resolve, Sansa took a step forward to gain her companions’ attention.

“Speaking of Jon, we should probably head back,” Sansa said, offering her arm to Daenerys once more. “The welcoming feast will be beginning soon.”

Daenerys took her arm once more as they walked back towards the keep and Sansa felt her give her arm a comforting squeeze.

“Thank you, Sansa,” she whispered, so her words didn’t carry to Missandei and Jorah. “I can imagine that telling us those things couldn’t have been easy for you, but I appreciate your honesty.”

Sansa turned and met Daenerys’ violet eyes and returned her smile, grateful and a little mystified by the kindness that she was showing her.

However, Sansa couldn’t dwell on it for a long as, when they made their way into the courtyard, Sansa felt her stomach drop, a feeling that she was sure was shared by Daenerys, if the tightening of her grip on Sansa’s arm was anything to go by.

Lyanna Mormont was waiting for them in the middle of the courtyard, standing between two House Mormont men, both carrying standards bearing their sigil. She was looking thunderous and Sansa chanced a glace towards Ser Jorah and wasn’t surprised to see him looking very uncomfortable under her glare.

As they came to a halt in front of the young lady, she took a step forward, turning her gaze towards Sansa and Daenerys.

“Lady Sansa, Lady Daenerys,” she said, inclining her head to each of them in turn. “I would like to speak with my cousin.”

At this Jorah took a step forward and bowed deeply.

“Lady Lyanna,” he said, smiling slightly as he straightened up. “It is an honour to meet you. I have heard many great things about you, especially from King Jon.”

“I cannot say the same,” Lyanna replied, with such scorn in her voice that Sansa involuntarily flinched.

Ser Jorah on the other hand, merely nodded, with a resigned look on his face.

_He had been expecting this_ , Sansa realised.

“My lady, I-” he began, before Lyanna sharply cut him off.

“You brought dishonour to House Mormont!” She said scathingly. “We now have to live with the knowledge that a member of our family, a former head of our House, sold men like cattle, purely for coin.”

“My lady,” Jorah said firmly, taking a step forward. “I know exactly what I have brought upon our family, and I live with that knowledge, and the shame of it, every day.”

Lyanna paused for a moment, her angry look tempered by a sudden ripple of confusion as she realised the meaning behind his words. Jorah sighed deeply before continuing.

“I know it doesn’t mean much, and it doesn’t repair the damage that I have done, but I am ashamed of my actions, and have been for a long time.

“But,” he said, raising his head to meet her eye. “You have nothing to fear from me, cousin. I have no intention of attempting to return to my place at the head of House Mormont.”

“You are assuming that I would give you that choice,” Lyanna said, causing Jorah to give a snort of laughter, that seemed to confuse her more.

Sansa took the moment to look at Daenerys and saw that she was observing the discussion with a mix of emotions on her face. Sansa could see that she was looking at Jorah with pity on her face, clearly sympathising with the harsh reception that he was being given. However, Sansa could also see the respect in Daenerys’ eyes whenever she looked towards the young lady.

“My lady, I will be headed south with Queen Daenerys,” Jorah said finally, drawing attention to him once more. “I have been named the Lord Commander of her Queensguard, and I will remain by her side once she regains the Iron Throne.

“I will go south, and leave our house in your hands which, from what I have heard from King Jon and from what I have seen here today, are clearly more than capable for the task. If all goes to plan, you will never see me again.”

Lyanna fell silent for a moment, looking both relieved and confused by Jorah’s declaration. Sansa held her breath for a moment, sharing a look with Daenerys, who was looking on with both expectation and dread.

“Very well,” Lyanna said, after a moment. “Maybe in serving a Queen you could restore the honour that you have squandered.”

With this, she turned and made her way into the keep, flanked by her men. Sansa watched her go, while exhaling deeply. She had been expecting a confrontation between the Mormonts but she hadn’t expected it to be so soon.

Sansa felt Daenerys let go of her arm for a moment, as she stepped forward to place a comforting hand on her Lord Commander’s arm, to which he responded with a grateful smile. After watching Daenerys’ concern and compassion for her followers with interest for a moment, Sansa took a step forward and showed them all into the keep for the welcoming feast, hoping that nothing would happen to disturb it.

*

Luckily, the feast passed mostly without incident, other than many of the lords glowering up towards Jorah. Jon was back in his place at the centre of the high table, with Sansa and Daenerys given the places on either side of him, Sansa to his right, Daenerys to his left. Arya and Bran were seated to Sansa’s other side, while Jorah, Missandei and the general, Grey Worm, joined Daenerys.

While Sansa hadn’t heard the man speak up to this point, she was surprised when Jon arrived at the table and shared a few words with the man, even eliciting a small smile from him.

_I wonder what happened on Dragonstone, for Jon to seem so close with them all_ , Sansa wondered.

This question was soon answered as Jon spent the majority of the feast telling Sansa, having already told Arya and Bran while they had been catching up during the day, about the events of his time on Dragonstone, from his negotiations with Daenerys, although he was very vague on the details, to the attack by Euron Greyjoy and his forces. Sansa listened closely, being both impressed and a little exasperated by Jon’s decision to fight on the frontlines.

_We need him here,_ Sansa thought to herself. _He is one of the few people who know the true threat coming for us._

As she thought of it, Sansa felt an almost involuntary chill run down her spine. Sansa didn’t think about the coming of the Night King all that much, knowing that worrying and obsessing over it would not help, but it always gave her a feeling of dread whenever she did.

As Jon finished his tale, Sansa leaned towards him slightly and whispered to him.

“And where have you sent Ser Davos?”

“To get something for us,” Jon replied cryptically, as he took a swig of his ale. “To help us in the fight against Cersei.”

Sansa furrowed her brow in confusion and had just opened her mouth to enquire further, when he reached out and gripped her forearm gently, smiling at her.

“Don’t worry, Sansa,” he whispered, as he got to his feet to address the hall. “You will know soon enough.”

As soon as Jon stood up, the hall quietened, with everyone giving him their full attention.

“Thank you all for this reception my lords,” Jon said, looking from face to face. “For both me and our new ally, Queen Daenerys.”

At this, the angry looks that some of the lords were still giving shifted to Daenerys and, in the process, many became more suspicious than outright hostile. Some, like Lord Cerwyn however had looks of anger and blatant suspicion as they regarded her.

“As you know,” Jon continued. “I went to Dragonstone to gain an alliance with Daenerys to give an ally against Cersei and the Lannisters, and later the White Walkers. And, as you can see, we did manage to reach such an agreement.

“Part of which,” Jon continued, with a smirk spreading across his lips, “includes the independence of the North from the Iron Throne.”

At Jon’s words, Sansa let out an almost silent laugh, almost not daring to believe her ears. She turned and shared a shocked and happy look with Arya and Bran. She was aware that the assembled lords had begun to mutter among themselves, but Sansa could tell from their voices that they too were shocked but pleased by this news.

Sansa turned and looked at Daenerys who was meeting the eyes of several lords, many of whom were now looking at her with disbelief on their faces, and smiling warmly at them before nodding her confirmation of Jon’s words.

_Well, Jon. That was one thing you didn’t tell me about,_ Sansa thought with pride, as she looked at her brother. _I am impressed. How did you manage it?_

Jon raised his hand, and the hall soon quietened down.

“There are other parts to our alliance, but as we still are waiting for several lords of the Vale, not least Lord Arryn, I will wait for their arrival before I reveal them all, out of respect for them.

“In the meantime, House Stark offers you all the hospitality of Winterfell, until their arrival.”

There was a collective murmur of approval and gratitude at this declaration, and Jon returned to his seat. Soon after the hall began to thin, with many of the lords retiring to their various chambers.

Sansa looked towards Jon and saw that he was looking relieved that the feast seemed to go off without any more issues or outspoken hostility. Sansa leaned in to speak to him.

“Jon, I think we should head to your study,” she said quietly. “There are a few matters that I need to tell you of that happened while you were away.”

Jon nodded before rising from his seat and addressing Daenerys.

“Would you care to join us, Dany?” he said, with Sansa taken aback by the familiarity of the name.

“Jon!” Arya said sternly, looking between them. “Are you sure?”

“Arya, we are allies now,” Jon explained patiently. “Dany might be able to help us.”

“Jon is right, Arya,” Bran said suddenly, surprising them all. “Daenerys should be there with us.”

Sansa looked at him for a moment and could see a look of dread and nervousness on her brother’s face. But, before she could say anything, his expression changed and he called for a few guardsmen to carry him to the study.

As they walked through the halls towards Jon’s study, Sansa looked at the back of Bran’s head, wondering what could be causing him such anxiety and fear.

_Is this about the vision he had of Jon?_ Sansa wondered, as they entered the study.

_But how does it concern Daenerys?_

Jon took his place at the table with Sansa and Bran seated on either side of him and Arya perching herself on the arm of his chair. It was something that she had often done in their childhood and the sight of her doing it once brought a smile to Sansa’s face. Daenerys and Missandei seated themselves on the other side of the table, with Ser Jorah standing guard at the door, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade.

“So, Sansa,” Jon turned, turning to her. “What did you need to tell me about?”

Sansa sighed as she folded her hands in front of her.

“When Lord Glover arrived, he brought some news about the Forresters. Both good and bad.”

Jon sighed and shook his head slightly.

“All right,” he said. “What is the good news?”

“Ironrath has been retaken from the Whitehills, and Rodrik Forrester is the lord once more. He has pledged that his remaining soldiers, while admittedly few, as well as their stores of ironwood are yours.”

As she said this, Sansa saw the look of relief pass across Jon’s face and knew that he too was remembering the trio who had come before them a few weeks ago, having been cast out from their home by the Boltons and their allies. Sansa thought in particular of the young girl, Talia, and felt a rush of happiness in knowing that they too had retaken their home.

“And the bad news?” Jon then asked, looking nervous.

Sansa sighed deeply before answering,

“Gryff Whitehill has escaped and fled back to Highpoint. He and his brother Torrhen, the new ruler of House Whitehill, have refused to bend the knee and are now in open rebellion against you.”

Jon sighed against and rested his head in his hands, rubbing his forehead.

“How many men do they have to command?”

“Lord Glover guesses at around three hundred, if they put a blade in every hand. But they also have just under a hundred from their vassal, House Warwick.”

Jon leaned back and rested his head against the back of his chair, clearly deep in thought. They watched him for a moment in silence, anxiously awaiting his decision.

“We will send five hundred men to retake Highpoint, and bring the Whitehills to justice for their crimes,” Jon declared finally.

“Did you say the Forresters?” Daenerys asked suddenly, looking shocked.

Sansa nodded back at her, a little confused by the recognition.

“I met an Asher Forrester,” Daenerys explained, to every Stark’s surprise. “When I was taking Meereen. He said that he needed sellswords to aid his family, but I couldn’t spare them.

“However, I gave him gold so her could buy some more of his own. His uncle, Malcolm, stayed with me to aid me while I was in Meereen. He was a good and wise man, and he spoke often of his family, and the troubles that they had suffered.”

“What happened to him?” Jon asked. “I don’t remember a Malcolm with you.”

“He was killed in the streets of Meereen, by the Sons of the Harpy.”

Daenerys fell silent for a moment, and Sansa thought more about what she had said. Sansa had asked Wolkan to find out as much of the Forresters as she could. She remembered the name Asher, as the exiled second son of the family. He had been sent to Essos after he had caused a scandal by falling in love with Gwyn Whitehill, the daughter of their family’s hated rival.

_The fact that Daenerys had met him is just incredible,_ Sansa thought. _Of all the places that he could have gone to, he crosses paths with her._

“I will give you a hundred of my Unsullied to help take Highpoint,” Daenerys said suddenly. “Malcolm was a good man, and I wish to repay him for all the help he gave me. I will ask Grey Worm which of his men know enough of the Common Tongue to lead them as they join your men.”

“Thank you, Daenerys,” Sansa said, “but shouldn’t we send more than six hundred men? We cannot allow them to get away.”

“Sansa,” Jon sighed, as he turned to her. “When our men arrive at Highpoint it will likely become a siege, potentially a lengthy one. And we will need every available man.”

Jon paused for a moment, before looking her in the eye.

“When the remaining lords of the Vale arrive, I will be calling the banners. In return for her aid in facing the White Walkers, we will help Daenerys to regain the Iron Throne.”

Sansa nodded, seeing the sense to his words.

“I’m guessing that this is terms of the alliance that you spoke of to the lords at the feast?”

Jon nodded in response.

“And the marriage match,” Daenerys said under her breath, so quietly that it was almost to herself.

“Marriage?” Sansa said, her breathing and heart quickening.

Jon, clearly sensing her discomfort, reached out and gripped her arm gently.

“I am the one who is to marry, Sansa,” Jon said softly. “I will not force you, _any_ of you, to marry against your will.”

While Sansa had known at the back of her mind that Jon was unlikely to force her into marriage, she couldn’t help herself picturing the idea. But hearing this from him, gave her an overwhelming feeling of relief and gratefulness towards her brother. Ignoring their company for a moment, Sansa leaned forward and hugged Jon.

“Thank you,” she whispered, feeling him grip her tightly in comfort.

After a moment, she let go and sat back in her chair and smiled at him, seeing him return it. Sansa then felt a small hand on her arm and turned to see that Daenerys had come over to her, with a sympathetic expression on her face.

“I’m sorry, Sansa, I should have explained better,” she said softly. “Jon mentioned that your previous marriages were not of your own choosing when my advisor, Lord Varys, suggested a match to secure our alliance.

“I know how that feels,” she continued, looking sad for a moment. “I was forced into marrying Drogo by my brother, Viserys. And, while I did grow to care for him, I know that this doesn’t happen in every one of these matches.

“I am happy though,” she continued, as she looked towards Jon and smiled. “That you have a brother who would willingly give himself up to be married to spare you all having to do the same.”

Sansa turned towards Jon too, and saw Arya hugging him as well, before turning her eyes back to Daenerys, feeling even warmer towards her, knowing that the two of them had been through similar experiences.

There was silence in the room for a moment, in which Daenerys returned to her seat, before Jon turned to her once more.

“I hear from Arya and Bran that you all managed to trap Littlefinger. Well done.”

Sansa smiled at him and, grasping hold of Jon’s clear attempt to change the subject, nodded in response.

“He was plotting to overthrow you, by declaring his support for me as the _true_ ruler of the North.”

“And he still believed that you would work with him when you suggested it?” Jon asked, smirking slightly. “He was _that_ deluded?

“Yes,” Sansa replied, returning his smile. “He genuinely believed that I was willing to conspire against you by getting the Northern lords to support me. He revealed his treason in front of them all, so he cannot deny it.”

“Well done,” Jon said again, smiling as he looked between them. “All three of you.”

“What are you going to do with him?” Arya asked, smirking widely from her perch on the arm of his chair.

“I will wait for Robin Arryn to arrive before I do anything.”

Arya opened her mouth to speak, but Jon raised his hand to stem any potential arguments until he had finished.

“If I execute the guardian of the Lord of the Vale, even for treason, without informing him of it first, it will be seen as an insult. I may be new at this, Arya, but I do not want to be the kind of king who does as he pleases, without consideration for his people, especially as, in this case, they are the ones who put me here.”

Sansa saw Arya looking mutinous for a moment and looked like she was about to continue arguing, before she nodded reluctantly.

“Don’t worry,” Jon said, patting her arm comfortingly. “He is locked up. I’m sure he will keep for a few days until the Vale lords arrive.”

Before Sansa could express her worries, and tell Jon about the potential letter that Littlefinger was supposed to receive, that they hadn’t yet found, Bran spoke.

“Jon,” he said quietly. “There is something that I need to tell you. And now that Daenerys is here too, it is the best time.”

Even though his voice was so quiet, everyone fell into silence at once. Sansa and Arya exchanged a glance, knowing that they were going to hear about the vision that Bran had been keeping quiet since his arrival. Sansa looked towards Daenerys, who looked as equally confused as they were.

“All right,” Jon said, sounding concerned. “What is it?”

Bran took a deep breath, and rubbed his face with his hands, clearly distressed by what he was about to reveal.

“I had a vision,” he said finally, looking Jon in the eye. “And… and I know who your mother is.”

At this Jon sat bolt upright in his chair, so quickly that Arya nearly toppled off the side. Sansa saw his expression change from concern and interest to excitement, the corners of his mouth curling into a smile. Sansa saw that Daenerys too was looking excited but Sansa couldn’t help but wonder.

_What does this have to do with Daenerys?_

“Who is she?” Jon asked, his voice quivering with excitement. “Is she alive?”

Bran opened his mouth but no words escaped him, and Sansa was concerned to see that he was looking more and more distressed. Bran swallowed hard before continuing.

“Your mother is Aunt Lyanna.”

Arya and Sansa shared another incredulous look, both looking like they believed they misheard it.

“Bran, that doesn’t make sense,” Sansa said consolingly. “Father would never-”

“That’s because Father isn’t _Jon’s_ father,” Bran replied to her sadly, before turning back to Jon once more

“Rhaegar Targaryen is.”

Silence fell in the room once more, so completely and so suddenly that it was eerie. Sansa sat staring at Bran, whose face was shining with emotion, willing him, _praying_ for him, to say that he was lying, that this was all some horrible joke.

But he didn’t.

Sansa turned to Arya, but saw that she was looking at Jon, with an expression of concern on her face. Following her gaze, Sansa looked at Jon and saw that his face had gone slack, looking completely stunned.

After a moment, Jon reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

“Bran-”, he began, before Bran held up his hands.

“I know, Jon,” he said, pleadingly. “I know how crazy it sounds, but you have to believe me. I would never lie to you, especially about something like this.”

“What did you see, Bran?” Sansa asked encouragingly.

“I saw Father find Lyanna dying, after he and Howland Reed defeated Ser Arthur Dayne and the Kingsguard. She was dying from childbirth. She told Father that if Robert Baratheon found out about the baby then he would kill him, and made Father promise to look after him.

“You, Jon,” Bran finished, looking at him.

Jon leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk, putting his face in his hands.

“How do you know that Rhaegar is the father, Bran?” Daenerys asked, her voice quiet.

“Howland Reed told me,” Bran replied. “When he came to Winterfell. He said that Robert would want any child of Rhaegar dead, so Father kept Jon safe from him.

“He and Meera left a few days ago, to return to Greywater Watch. When you go south, you should see him. He can tell you more than I can.”

He fell silent again and all eyes were drawn to Jon, still sitting with his head in his hands. Sansa felt a rush of pity for him, knowing his entire life was unravelling around him, with everything he knew about himself and his parentage being a lie.

After a moment, Jon raised his head and looked directly at Jorah and Daenerys.

“I’m Jaehaerys,” he said, in a voice full of realisation. “All this time wondering who and where he was, and it was me all along.”

“What are you talking about, Jon?” Sansa asked.

But it was not Jon who answered.

“While I was in Oldtown, to cure my greyscale,” Jorah said, taking a step away from the door, with a look of stunned realisation on his face. “Jon’s friend Samwell Tarly and I were shown a letter declaring that Rhaegar and Lyanna were married and had a child, named Jaehaerys.”

Sansa felt her stomach drop at this and frantically turned to see that both Arya and Bran had come to the same realisation as she had, and were equally panicked by it.

“Littlefinger,” she gasped, horror-struck.

“What about him?” Daenerys asked, looking confused.

“He said that he had received a document that would turn the North against Jon, and that he had gotten it from Oldtown. He must have gotten the marriage document.”

Jon turned to her and she could see the momentary panic in his eyes too, before he abruptly got up from his seat to begin pacing back and forth. Sansa noticed that Daenerys was watching him with a concerned look on her face, before she turned to them.

“How did he say that he got the letter?” Daenerys asked, looking between the three of them.

“He said that one of his spies in Oldtown got hold of it and sent it here, and that it should arrive within the week. Which means that it should be here in the next day or so, if it isn’t here already.”

Jorah had jolted slightly as Sansa spoke, and stepped forward.

“While Archmaester Willem was showing Sam and I the document, there was someone listening at the door,” Jorah said. “That has got to be Littlefinger’s spy.”

Sansa turned to Jon, who was still pacing, and she could tell that he wasn’t really paying much attention to the conversation, being too lost in his thoughts.

As he passed her again, Sansa reached out and grabbed his wrist, forcing him to look at her. Sansa could see that he had a far-away look on his face, clearly still trying to process the news.

“Jon, you can’t tell anyone,” Sansa said, gripping his wrist even tighter to convey her point. “Littlefinger is right. If that is revealed, then the North might turn against you. At the moment, you are seen as the eldest surviving child of Eddard Stark, but if this were revealed they might see you as merely the product of Rhaegar raping Lyanna, or even that he forced her to marry him.”

“Why?” Missandei asked, in a quiet voice. “Even if it shown to people, then why would they think that Jaehaerys is Jon? He doesn’t have the Targaryen looks, like Queen Daenerys does, does he?”

“My father was always known as an honourable man,” Sansa explained, loosening her grip on Jon’s arm slightly. “The only dishonourable act that he was ever considered to have committed was fathering a bastard son. If it was revealed that his sister, Lyanna, had a child of around Jon’s age, then it wouldn’t take long for people to work it out.”

As Missandei nodded her understanding, Sansa returned her gaze to Jon, who was still looking down at her. She redoubled her grip and shook his arm slightly as she pleaded with him.

“Jon. You _can’t_ tell anyone.”

“I know,” he said lowly, nodding his head.

“We just have to hope that Littlefinger hasn’t told anyone yet,” Bran said, sounding worried.

“Another reason to want that bastard dead,” Arya growled, from Jon’s now vacant seat.

Jon cleared his throat, before pulling his arm gently out of Sansa’s grip.

“I, uh,” he said, as he pulled away. “I need some time alone, to deal with this.”

Jon then walked towards the door, with Daenerys reaching out to brush her hand against his fingers gently, and Sansa saw his eyes close at her touch. When Jon reached the door, Sansa called after him.

“Jon!”

He stopped, with his hand on the handle, and turned back to them.

“You should know that nothing that we just heard changes what I told you on the battlements that day, when you sent Melisandre away. Do you remember?”

Jon was silent for a moment, when the ghost of a smile unfurled itself at the corners of his mouth.

“You said I was a Stark,” he replied sadly, as if he no longer believed it.

“And you still are,” Sansa said firmly. “No matter who your father is.”

“She is right, Jon,” Arya said, with Bran vigorously nodding his assent too.

Jon looked at them for a moment, completely stunned before breaking into a smile, looking relieved.

“Thank you,” he said, nodding. “And I want the three of you to know that, regardless of who my father is, you _are_ my siblings.”

He paused for a moment, looking between them.

“The ones that I choose.”

With that, Jon turned and left the room, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.


	26. Jon V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for the wait. I think I spoiled you all last week by releasing them so close together, didn’t I? It kind of messed up the loose schedule that I have, so I am going to have to try to space them out more evenly in the future.   
> I hope you enjoy it.  
> Next up is Jaime.

 

Jon

 

Jon closed the door of the study behind him and made his way down the corridor, as his thoughts raged inside of his head. As he walked, several of the servants of the castle and a few minor lords greeted him as he passed them, but Jon didn’t hear them.

All Jon could hear were the echoes of Bran’s voice, thundering through his mind as though he were bellowing the words into his ear.

“ _Your mother is Aunt Lyanna.”_

“ _That’s because Father isn’t Jon’s father.”_

_“Rhaegar Targaryen is.”_

Jon continued to walk through Winterfell without realising where he was actually going. Before he knew it, he was at his chamber and pushed the door open, finding it empty but with a fire burning the hearth.

As Jon moved to sit in front of the fire, he dimly noted that Ghost was probably in the godswood with Nymeria, whose side he hadn’t left since their reunion. As he looked into the fire, Jon managed to calm down his mind enough to think coherently.

_I am Jaehaerys,_ Jon thought, still finding it as difficult to believe as he had before.

But Jon knew that it was the truth.

As Bran had said himself, he wouldn’t lie to Jon and never about something as important as this. Jon also knew that Bran’s visions, from the few that he had shared with him, had never been wrong. He had seen their Father’s death and the Ironborn taking of Winterfell.

_And now me as Jaehaerys._

Jon turned his head to look at the map that covered his desk and thought of all the time that he had spent staring at it, wondering about where Jaehaerys was, and chuckled slightly in spite of himself.

_All those hours looking at it, wondering where Father had sent Jaehaerys and all I had to do was look at myself_ , Jon thought.

_Father._

Jon jolted slightly as he thought that, before shaking his head.

_No, not father,_ Jon pondered sadly, as he looked out of the windows at Winterfell. _Uncle._

It felt odd to think of Eddard Stark as his uncle, rather than his father. After all, the man had raised him as his son for his whole life. As this thought flitted across Jon’s mind, he felt a rush of respect and affection for his uncle.

_He cast away his honour, lied to his wife, children and his best friend, all to keep me safe,_ Jon realised.

Jon thought back to all of the times that Lady Catelyn had made her feelings about Jon clear, either directly to his face or towards Eddard or their children within his earshot. In particular, he thought back to when he had left Winterfell, after saying goodbye to Bran, where she had demanded that he leave.

And Jon couldn’t help but wonder what would have been different if she, and they all, had known the truth.

_Would Lady Catelyn have treated me differently?_ Jon wondered, although he was sure that she would.

Despite all of their differences, Jon knew that she wasn’t a spiteful woman at heart. The love she showed towards her husband and children were proof of that. She had been cold and distant with Jon due to the shame and dishonour that she through that he brought onto her and the Starks, with Eddard bedding another woman.

But he hadn’t.

_Why didn’t he say anything?_ Jon wondered, running his hands through his hair. _Why didn’t he tell his wife at least? I’m sure that she wouldn’t have said anything._

Jon knew _why_ Eddard had kept the secret from as many people as possible, Bran had said it himself:

_“Robert would want any child of Rhaegar dead, so Father kept Jon safe from him.”_

Eddard obviously hadn’t wanted the secret to spread across the kingdoms, as it surely would if a secret child of the crown prince were revealed.

He had wanted to keep Jon safe. Jon felt another rush of respect for Eddard at this, knowing what he had risked to keep him safe all his life, especially given Robert Baratheon’s vitriolic hatred for the Targaryen.

But Jon couldn’t understand why he would keep it from his family, not least his wife and the mother of his children, people who, if they had known the truth, would surely have kept the secret as truly as he had for all these years.

However, Jon’s curiosity and respect over Eddard’s actions soon turned to guilt. Eddard had let himself be considered as a dishonourable man throughout the kingdoms for fathering a bastard, when his whole life had been devoted to being as honourable and just as he could be.

All for him, and Lyanna.

Jon buried his head into his hands and rubbed his forehead hard, trying to calm the maelstrom of thoughts that raged within him. After a moment, Jon sighed before looking longingly over at his bunk. He was tired from their travels, but at the same time he knew that his thoughts would keep him awake for hours.

Not content with purely sitting in his room, with no company other than his thoughts and theories over his parentage, Jon rose from his seat and left his chamber. The castle was empty and dark at this hour, with the only sounds being Jon’s footsteps reverberating around the stone corridors.

As Jon beat a familiar path through the castle, he passed by a door that he recognised. It was Robb’s old room, where the two of them had spent many hours during their childhoods. As he passed it, Jon wondered what Robb’s reaction would be to the news.

However, Jon immediately chided himself for even having to ask. Jon knew that Robb’s response would echo what Sansa, Arya and Bran had said to him in the study.

As he remembered Sansa’s words, coupled with Arya and Bran’s agreement, a wide smile crossed over his face. When he had first heard the news, Jon had initially wondered what their reaction would be, but their immediate declaration that they still regarded him as their brother was more than he could have hoped for.

But the fact remained that he wasn’t.

Almost unbidden into Jon’s mind came the questions. What was his father like? His _siblings_? Jon knew that Rhaegar had two children, Aegon and Rhaenys, who were killed in the Sack of King’s Landing. Jon wondered what things would have been like if Rhaegar and Lyanna had lived.

Would he have grown up in King’s Landing, the son of the king? With Lyanna in his life from the start, the mother that he had been denied his whole life?

But Jon didn’t feel any longing for it, no regret that these events hadn’t happened. He merely felt curiosity and interest in what _could_ have been.

As Jon entered the darkened Winterfell courtyard, he looked over towards the entrance to the crypts, and his mind wandered to the visage of Lyanna that he knew resided down there.

_His mother._

Jon had always wondered who his mother was and had always held onto the hope that he might one day meet her. And, while he now knew that this was not possible, Jon felt a feeling of relief that the mystery that he had pondered over his whole life had finally been sold.

All of the Stark children had wondered often what their aunt was like, but they had received previous few stories about her from their father as he had rarely spoken of her. But now Jon had a burning urge to hear more of these tales, to know a little about his mother.

Jon had heard many times, mainly from when the other Northern lords would visit Winterfell and begin reminiscing with Eddard about their visits in their youth, about how Lyanna had been a wild, free spirited person. The ‘wolf blood’ many had called it. Many of them had compared her to Arya and, even though her statue was obviously not going to completely capture her true likeness, Jon could see the resemblance.

Struck by a sudden need, Jon strode over to the crypts and began to descend down the long staircase, taking a torch with him as he went. Soon he reached the bottom and walked through the towering forms of the Kings of Winter, the light from his torch casting flickering shadows over the walls.

Before long, Jon came to a stop in front of the statues of Brandon and Lyanna Stark, that Eddard had ordered crafted, in defiance of the tradition. He looked at the stony visage of Brandon for the moment, before turning to look at his mother.

Even while a statue, Jon could see that she was beautiful and he could see the resemblance to Arya that people had spoken of. Jon had looked at the statue many times before and had always had a curious feeling looking at her, wondering what she was like.

But now he had a rising feeling of loss from within him, looking at the face of the woman he would never meet. 

“Mother,” Jon whispered, as he reached out to touch the cheek of the statue and felt the cold stone under his fingers.

He stayed there for a moment, staring into where her eyes would be, before he lowered his hand and lowered his head.

“Jon?” said a familiar voice from behind hm.

Jon turned to see Arya standing there, looking at him concerned. Jon merely smiled at her before returning his gaze to Lyanna’s statue.

“I had a feeling that I would be seeing you,” Jon said, still smiling. “I have heard that you have been keeping some strange hours.”

Arya moved forward to stand next to him, and he turned to look at her. In the half-light, he could see that she was smirking slightly at his statement but said nothing. Jon turned back to Lyanna and sighed.

“It is strange, isn’t it? All these times we were down here, looking at the statue, and we never knew.”

“Jon,” Arya said, as she reached out and took his hand. “Are you all right? This is quite a lot to take in.”

“I am fine, Arya,” Jon replied, smiling reassuringly at her. “I promise.”

Jon could see her looking at him with scepticism and he turned away, not allowing her to see the confusion that still brimmed within him. Jon felt her squeeze his hand slightly.

“We meant what we said, Jon. You _are_ a Stark to us, and you always will be. No matter what happens.”

Despite hearing it before, Jon felt a rush of happiness and gratefulness at Arya’s words.

“I was always half a Stark,” Jon said, returning the gripping her hand back. “It seems that not much has changed.”

“No, Jon,” Arya continued, as she hugged his arm and rested her head against it. “You were always much more than that.”

They stayed that way for a long time, neither of them speaking. Jon felt immeasurably grateful for her presence, offering her comfort and support to him. After a while, a wave of fatigue caught up with him and Jon had to suppress a yawn. Wordlessly the two them turned and left the crypt, not unlinking their hands until they reached the castle.

*

Jon awoke the next morning with a plan already half-formed in his mind. He waited for a while so as to not disturb him. After a few hours, Jon made his way to Mikken’s chamber.

He heard the old man beckon him inside when he knocked and pushed open the door. The man was sat by a roaring fire, huddled in thick furs. He turned to Jon when he entered and was about to rise, when Jon raised a hand to him.

“Keep your seat, friend,” Jon said, as he made his way over to him and indicated towards an empty chair. “May I?”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Mikken said, nodding. “This is your castle after all.”

“But this is _your_ chamber while you stay here,” Jon responded, as he sat.

Mikken looked at him for a moment, before smiling widely.

“Thank you, Your Grace. Not many rulers would treat a man such as me with such respect.”

Jon returned his smile, before leaning forward slightly.

“So, what do you think of the North so far?”

“It is cold,” Mikken replied, tightening his grip on the furs bundled around him in response. “Very cold.”

Jon laughed.

“I guess it would be for someone who had lived in the South. Your winters are probably warmer than our summers sometimes.”

Mikken chuckled in response and the two fell into silence for a moment, with Jon trying to compose himself for what he was going to ask.

“So, what can I do for you, Your Grace?” Mikken asked suddenly.

Jon took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he was about to ask. He knew that Sansa had told him not to tell anyone, but he had to know.

“What was Rhaegar like?” Jon asked.

Mikken looked at him knowingly, before smiling widely.

“I know a great deal about your father, Your Grace,” Mikken said, causing Jon to jolt slightly in shock. 

Jon looked the old man in the eye, who merely smiled serenely back at him, sure that he had misheard him.

“How did you know?” Jon asked, feeling a little relieved that he wouldn’t have to try and explain it.

“There were a few things that got my attention,” Mikken conceded modestly.

“Oh, not in looks,” he continued, as Jon opened his mouth. “No, I see that you got your looks from your mother, whom I guess is Lady Lyanna?”

Jon swallowed hard before nodding quickly in response.

“You take after her in your looks then, as there is precious little of your father in your appearance.

“But in your actions, that is a different story.”

Mikken paused for a moment, rubbing his hands together in the heat of the fire. Jon watched him for a moment, anxiously waiting for him to speak. Just when Jon was about to break the silence, to ask his meaning, Mikken turned to look back at him.

“Rhaegar was, despite popular opinion throughout the kingdoms, and kind and honourable man. I know that in the North you are told that he kidnapped Lyanna due to his lust for her, and probably raped her.

“But that is not the man that I knew,” Mikken continued, looking into the fire, with a wistful look on his face. “The man I knew was kind and compassionate to everyone he knew, lords or servants alike. He went into the streets to sing to the people, and would give away the gold that he would earn while doing so.

“That is the part of him that I see in you,” he said, as he turned to smile at Jon. “Since I have met you, you have never treated anyone as beneath you, never demanded that people bow to you because of your title. What you did just now, asking to be seated within your own castle, is something that Rhaegar would have done.

“Your father was beloved by many throughout the kingdoms, much like you are here in the North. You are more alike than you know.”

Jon sat there for a moment, processing the man’s words. It was a little jarring to hear these words of Rhaegar, when he had mainly heard the man’s name spoken with scorn and outspoken hatred.

But, while he was a little relieved to know that Rhaegar might not have been the monster that he had always believed him to be, Jon couldn’t dismiss all of his concerns.

“You say that he was an honourable and considerate man,” Jon said evenly, not wishing to offend the man, who clearly held Rhaegar in high regard. “But when he and my mother ran off together, the confusion over this helped to stir up resentment against the Targaryen family, which led to the Rebellion. While Aerys is the one to blame for it, Rhaegar’s actions certainly helped, leading to the deaths of thousands.”

Mikken looked at him sagely for a moment, before chuckling.

“I am not going to sit here and say that all of your father’s decisions were wise. I agree that leaving with Lyanna without telling anyone, especially given the way that his father was acting, was not the wisest course of action.

“And yet, here you are, about to begin a war that will also result in the death of thousands.”

“It is not the same thing, Mikken,” Jon said, shaking his head slightly.

“Isn’t it?” the old man responded, raising an eyebrow. “Heading south with the woman that you love, an action that will result in upheaval and death for many people. It seems very similar to me, Your Grace.”

Jon opened his mouth to argue, but closed it again when he saw the disbelieving look on the old man’s face and knew that nothing that he said would have any impact on him. Jon merely fell into silence to dwell on the man’s words.

_Did he love Daenerys?_

While Jon had come to admire her greatly in the short time that they had known each other, he wasn’t sure that he could describe the feelings that he had for her as love.

_And yet._

Jon thought back to their kiss in Dany’s tent, the feeling of desire that had risen up within him at the touch of her lips and body against him. Thinking back, Jon knew that he had been only moments away from losing his self-control and bedding her that night, something that he knew that she also desired from the look that she had given him.

But Jon now knew that she was his aunt, and that caused him to consider his feelings in a new light. He knew that these sorts of marriages, while uncommon, did happen throughout Westeros but he had never thought that it would be _him_ who would go through one of them

Mikken seemed to notice his indecision, and reached out to grip his forearm gently.

“Two Targaryens marrying for love, rather than being told to do so, is not the worst thing in the world, Jon.”

Jon looked back at the man for a moment, feeling a little awkward at the mention of the marriage. Since he had been told of Dany’s marriage to Drogo, he had been debating whether to speak to her about ignoring the idea, having no wish to force her into a marriage once again.

“I am not a Targaryen,” Jon replied, not unkindly.

“Even better, then it would seem that you have nothing to hold you back,” Mikken replied.

Jon looked back at the man for a moment, wondering about the reason for the man’s interest. However, Jon soon realise that the man was simply loyal to Dany and the Targaryen family, and merely wants the best for them.

After a moment, Jon nodded and stood up.

“Thank you, Mikken, for speaking with me.”

“No problem, Your Grace,” the man said, nodding. “If you have any more questions about your father, I would be glad to answer them.”

“I know about my father,” Jon replied steadily. “Rhaegar and Lyanna might be my birth parents, but Lord Eddard is the one who raised me as his own son all of my life, who protected me from all those who would want me dead.

“He is my father.”

Mikken looked at Jon for a moment, looking both surprised and a little hurt. But he then he nodded, his expression changing to one of acceptance.

“Then you are lucky, Your Grace,” he said. “You have two fathers, both of whom are honourable men, worthy of being emulated.”

Jon nodded in response, not wishing to offend the old man any further, before turning and leaving the room.

Jon, his mind once more churning with unresolved questions, made his way to the godswood, the one place in Winterfell where he felt the closest to his family, now more than ever.

As he walked under the canopy of branches, Jon turned his head and saw Ghost and Nymeria laying together under the shade of a large oak tree. Smiling slightly, Jon made his way to the heart tree at the centre, standing proudly next to the pool of dark water.

Jon stood there for a moment, remembering all of the times he had come across Eddard there, either praying to the Old Gods or cleaning Ice. Smiling slightly, Jon bowed his head.

“I never knew just how much you have done for me,” Jon said quietly. “All of my life, I never knew just how much you risked and sacrificed for me. But now I do.”

Jon paused for a moment and raised his head towards the face carved onto the heart tree and imagined for a moment that it was Eddard looking out at him.

“Thank you, Father.”

How long he stood there, simply staring at the heart tree, Jon couldn’t say. He was broken from his reverie by the sound of footsteps from behind him. He turned to see Dany walking towards him.

It was the first time that he had seen her since the revelations of the night before. He had wondered what he would feel when he saw her, now that he knew that she was his aunt.

And yet, nothing that he felt changed.

She looked as beautiful as ever, her pale skin and silver hair seeming to shine in the gloomy grove, as well as her violet eyes glinting at him as she walked towards him. A small smile spread across Jon’s mouth at the sight of her, one that she returned when she grew closer.

“May I join you?” She asked quietly.

“Of course,” Jon replied, meeting her eye.

She walked forward until she was standing next to him, and looked at with concern.

“How are you?” she asked, and Jon could hear the worry in her voice. “What you heard yesterday, it was a lot to take in.”

“I am fine, Dany,” Jon replied reassuringly. “I promise.”

“I am glad,” she said, before a small smirk appeared on her face and she asked teasingly. “I was wondering, which do you prefer? Jon or Jaehaerys?”

“Jon,” he replied abruptly, although he too was smiling slightly. “Regardless of what we heard yesterday, Eddard Stark is my father and I am a Stark.”

“That wouldn’t be how some would see it,” Dany replied, as her smile vanished to be replaced by a look of deep thought. “They would see you as the ‘rightful’ heir to throne, being Rhaegar’s last surviving son.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Jon said quickly, wanting to dispel any notions immediately. “I have no intentions towards the Iron Throne. When we defeat the Lannisters, the throne will be yours.”

“Thank you, Jon,” Dany said as looked at him with a wide smile full of gratitude on her face, before she raised herself up onto her toes and kissed him chastely on the lips.

It lasted for only a second, but it was enough to set Jon’s heart racing and the want for more to rise within him once more. Although this time, his longing for her was also tempered by the knowledge of his true parentage.

Dany seemed to sense his restraint and pulled away from him, raising an eyebrow at him curiously.

“I don’t wish to sound arrogant or make things uncomfortable for you Jon, but neither Drogo nor Daario showed this much restraint when I expressed my desire for them.”

Jon shifted slightly at this, especially at the mention of Daario, a man that he, despite only having heard about him though Dany and Missandei, had taken an immediate dislike to.

“Does it not bother you?” he asked her. “The desire that we have for each other, knowing what we do now?”

At this Dany smiled at him, before reaching out and taking his hand.

“Jon,” she said patiently. “I am a Targaryen. _We_ are Targaryens, whether you want it or not. Our family has wed brother to sister for centuries. My father and mother were brother and sister. I grew up my whole life thinking that I would marry Viserys.”

At this Dany paused, and Jon could see a look of distaste cross her face and he knew that she was envisioning what her life would have been like in that situation. Before he could say anything to comfort her, the look vanished and she returned her gaze to him.

“If I am to marry a Targaryen, my nephew, I am glad to know that he is a better man than Viserys could ever have hoped to be.”

Jon stood there for a moment, stunned, before smiling widely at her and gripping her hand tighter. Dany returned his smile and raised her free hand to place it on his cheek.

“I know that what you found out isn’t what you wanted to hear, Jon. I’m sorry.”

“I have been in similar situation before, Dany,” Jon replied, smiling at her reassuringly. “I will be fine.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, furrowing her brow as she lowered her hand again.

“Being the Bastard of Winterfell, being elected the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, being made the King in the North and now knowing that I am the last son of Rhaegar Targaryen.

“Very few things have been of my decision,” Jon continued, setting his jaw resolutely. “But I have managed before, and done my duty. And I will do so now.”

Dany smiled a little, before shaking her head slightly in apparent amusement at his stoicism. She moved her hand within his and linked their fingers together.

“Jon, I’m sure that it isn’t against your duty to take a moment to yourself sometimes, and pursue what you _do_ want.”

Jon examined her face as she said this and felt his desire reached a peak within him. He looked into her eyes, which were looking at him with affection, and his restraint left him.

Jon reached forward and placed his hand at the back of Dany’s head and pulled her gently towards him, bringing their lips together once more. He pushed his tongue towards her lips which parted immediately, with their tongues meeting inside.  

While his worries about the revelations of the day before, and the effect that they could have on his relationship and feelings for Dany, had not completely gone, the feeling of having her in his arms again pushed them far from his thoughts.

He felt her moan into his mouth and she gripped the front of his shirt, which spurred him even further. Jon’s lips left hers and he began to kiss downwards, along her chin and towards her neck. When his lips reached her throat, he felt another moan leave her and felt her fingers untangle themselves from his own as she put her hands in his hair and pulled his head up to hers once more, their mouths reconnecting.

With her hands in his hair, Jon’s hands gripped at her hips, pulling her closer to him, before he moved his hands once more, running them along her curves. As she felt Jon’s hands begin to wander, Dany laughed into his mouth, which he returned.

However, before either of them could do anymore, the sounds of horns from the gates found their way to them, no doubt heralding the arrival of the Vale lords. They broke apart, with Jon looking into Dany’s flushed face with a wide smile on his face.

“It appears that your moment away from your duty has ended,” she whispered, looking him in the eye.

He nodded at her unsurely, all of his feelings and worries about them flooding back to the surface, along with new ones, all fighting against each other.

_What am I doing?_ Jon scolded himself. _Why is whenever I am with her, all of my restraint leaves me?_

Dany smiled at him as she leaned forward and kissed him deeply once more before leaving the godswood. Jon watched her leave with a strange feeling in his gut, one of mixed longing and uncertainty.

Once she left, Jon buried his head in his hands once more.

“What the fuck am I going to do?”

*

Later that evening, Jon sat at his chair at the high table, with Sansa and Dany on either side of him once more. He looked down to among the assembled lords and saw Robin Arryn sitting next to Lord Royce.

Jon had heard a little about the boy from Sansa and Lord Royce when he had been at Winterfell, but he had still been surprised by how frail and sickly the boy was, and could instantly believe that Littlefinger would have little trouble coercing the boy into following his whims unquestioningly.

As the various Vale lords drunk and eat their fill, Jon caught Lord Royce’s eye, receiving a nod in return. Jon looked pointedly at Lord Arryn, and raised his eyebrows questioningly, his meaning clear.

_Did our plan work?_

Lord Royce immediately smiled before giving a single nod, causing Jon to feel a sense of relief. With Lord Royce counselling the young lord, there would be less of a chance of him causing an uproar over Littlefinger’s fate.

Jon rose to his feet and the hall gradually quietened. Once the last few laughs and clattering of goblets had died away, Jon addressed them

“Welcome to Winterfell, my lords. The Stark family is pleased that you all have made the journey to Winterfell especially the Vale lords, whose journey has been the longest of all.”

Jon raised his goblet in a toast to all of the assembled lords in front of him, and saw many of them look pleased that their king would do such a thing for them. As Jon drunk some of his ale, he wondered how many of them would still be as pleased when he called the banners.

“As you all know, I called you all here to tell you about our new alliance with Daenerys Targaryen,” Jon continued, indicating to Dany. Jon had noticed that many of the lords hadn’t been as outspoken hostile towards her since the announcement of Northern independence.

“However, there is a matter that needs to be addressed first.”

Jon then turned to where the Vale lords were sat and looked directly at Robin Arryn.

“Lord Arryn, please approach.”

As Robin and Lord Royce rose from their seats, everyone watched their approach with interest. When they stood in front of him, Jon retook his seat.

“Lord Arryn, I am sure that you are aware by now of the treason of your uncle and guardian, the Lord Petyr Baelish.”

“I-I am, Your Grace,” the young boy stammered, clearly intimidated by being put on the spot in front of so many people. “But there must be some mistake. My Uncle Petyr wouldn’t do such a thing.”

At this, there was an outbreak of outraged muttering among the lords, which did nothing to ease the boy’s nerves. Jon, feeling a twinge of pity of him, raised his hand to quell the mutterings.

“Lord Arryn,” Jon said placatingly. “Lord Baelish reveals his intent of treason right here, in front of most of the Northern lords.”

“It is true, Robin,” Sansa said from Jon’s right. He looked at her and saw that she was looking down at her cousin with sympathy. “He revealed his intention to stand behind me to depose King Jon.”

At this, there was a renewed outbreak of muttering, this time of agreement, which caused Arryn to visibly look distressed and angry. Seemingly sensing danger, Lord Royce leaned down to whisper into the boy’s ear. He initially looked mutinous, but Royce’s words seemed to have an effect as he soon sighed deeply before turning back to Jon.

“I apologise for the actions of my uncle, Your Grace,” he said stiffly. “I assume that he is to be executed?”

Jon nodded in response, causing several lords to murmur their approval.

“In that case, I have one request,” Robin said, and he then looked at Jon pleadingly, a look that was mirrored in his tone. “Please make it quick. And painless.”

Jon looked down at the young boy for a moment, his feeling of pity growing as he saw the look on his face, before nodding.

“You have my word, my lord. I will perform the execution personally on the morrow.”

Robin Arryn nodded his thanks.

“The might of the Vale is behind you, King Jon,” he said, bowing his head slightly, now doubt at Royce’s prompting.

“I thank you, Lord Arryn,” Jon replied, as he motioned for them to retake their seats. “I have a feeling that we will be needing them.”

As Robin and Lord Royce made their way back to their seats, Jon could sense that the other lord’s curiosity had been piqued by his last statement. As they sat down, on sighed again, before rising to his feet once more.

“And now, my lords, the terms of our alliance with Daenerys.”

Jon took a deep breath, steeling himself, before continuing.

“As you know, the North will be granted independence. The Vale,” he said, turning once more to the Vale lords, “will remain with us until the conflict is over, and they will then be given the choice of which ruler they wish to swear their fealty to.”

The Vale lords looked at each other, looking both curious and a little apprehensive.

“Queen Daenerys has also promised her forces and her dragons in our fight against the White Walkers.”

At this there was a mixed noise of both disbelief over Jon’s insistence of the White Walker’s existence but also anxiety at the mention of the dragons. Rhaegal and Viserion had flown over Winterfell when the Vale lords had arrived earlier, clearly drawn by the procession of people.

There had been a collective shout of surprise at the sight of them. However, Jon had notice that while many of them had watching them with fear, there had been some that had watched with awe.

“And what are we giving in return?” demanded Lady Mormont.

Steeling himself for the worst, Jon took a deep breath and answered.

“We will march south with Daenerys to aid her in gaining the Iron Throne from Cersei Lannister.”

As expected many of the lords, with exception of Lord Manderly and Lady Mormont, among others, rose in outrage.

“Why should we send our men to fight _her_ war?”

“We have lost too many sons and daughters in the South.”

With many of the lords shouting over each other, Jon looked around them. He saw that while Manderly, who had already known of this, merely nodded his support to him, he saw that some, like Lady Mormont, while not shouting their outrage, where also not happy with this news.

“My lords!” Jon called over the din, raising his hands to get their attention. “Enough!”

Jon voice just managed to be heard over their shouts, and they quietened down enough to allow him to speak, although many of them still furious.

“I know that many of you lost men in the recent wars but-” Jon began.

“So why should we send more of our men to their deaths to help her?” Lord Cerwyn demanded, with several mutters of approval following his words.

“Because, like I said already, she has agreed to aid us in the coming war with the White Walkers.”

“White Walkers, that we have no proof of that exist,” Cerwyn responded.

“I have seen them with my own eyes, Lord Cerwyn,” Jon replied scathingly. “Are you calling your king a liar?”

Lord Cerwyn’s face went slack in shock for a moment, before shaking his head.

“My lords, I swear to you, on the bones of my father, on the Old Gods themselves, that the White Walkers are real, and they are coming for us. We will need to be ready for them, and we can’t be ready if we have to worry about Cersei Lannister as well.”

“Then why can’t we-” Cerwyn began again, causing Jon’s temper to flare.

“Lord Cerwyn!” he bellowed. “I have tolerated your interruption once already, and answered your question. I will not be so cordial if you do so again. Am I clear?”

Jon’s anger had the effect that his words didn’t. Lord Cerwyn nodded shakily before taking his seat once more and several of the other lords, who moments ago had looked mutinous, seemed cowed.

Jon sighed deeply, and rubbed his face with his hands, regretting his anger.

“My lords,” Jon began again, in a calmer voice. “I understand that you have all lost your sons and daughters in the War of the Five Kings and against the Boltons and that you want no more of your men to leave the North, never to return. Truly, I do understand.

“But we have no choice. We cannot sit here, doing nothing. If Daenerys goes south, and her army fails against Cersei, then the Lannisters will head North to deal with us, in numbers that we will likely have little chance against.

“However, if we join our numbers with Daenerys forces, as well as the larger host that she has already sent to Dorne, we can be sure that we can win and live our lives free from the threat of another attack from the South and, later, from the greater threat from the North.”

Jon’s words seemed to grab their attention. Jon knew that many of them had been worried about a potential attack from Cersei, particularly after Jon’s coronation, so the idea of a pre-emptive strike seemed to appeal to many of them. And, combined with the news that Daenerys had another, even larger army already fighting, seemed to appeal to many of them.

“But there is another, more important, reason for us to go south.”

Jon looked around at them, in particular those lords who had suffered the most during the War of the Five Kings.

“Vengeance.”

The single word gained more attention than anything else Jon had said. Every eye in the hall was on him as he spoke.

“Lord Manderly,” Jon said, turning to him. “When you declared me as King in the North, you said that I avenged the Red Wedding.

“But I haven’t. Not yet.”

Jon took a breath and looked around at the lords, seeing that they were all looking even more curious now.

“The Boltons have been dealt with for their part in the Red Wedding, but the Freys and the Lannisters haven’t yet faced the justice that they deserve for what they have done.

“While the Freys are not as powerful as they had been, they are still ruling the Riverlands for the Lannisters,” Jon continued, thinking of what Arya had told him of her actions at the Twins.

While Jon had little sympathy of those who died, because of their betrayal of Robb and his men and defilement of their bodies and guest rite, he wasn’t fully approving of Arya’s methods. However, this was not the time to think about that.

“The Lannisters, with the war ended, now sit on the Iron Throne, and neither of these Houses has paid for what they have done to us.”

As Jon spoke, his voice grew louder, and his anger began to creep into it once more. However, this seemed to have the desired effect, as many of the lords began nodding their approval at his words.

“This is why we must go south with Daenerys, my lords. To show the South what we mean when we say that the North Remembers.”

There was a sudden uproar of approval at his words, with many of them banging their goblets on the table or shouting ‘The North Remembers’.

“You have my men, Jon Snow,” Tormund said, rising to his feet.

“And mine, Your Grace,” Manderly said, as he too rose.

At the sight of Manderly, one of the largest and most influential houses in the North, pledging their support many of the smaller houses seemed to gain more courage. However, the sight of Tormund doing the same galvanised the others, not wishing to be outdone by a wilding,

One by one, they all pledged that they would follow him south. Glover, Mormont, Hornwood, Arryn. All of the lords of the North and Vale, even a disgruntled looking Cerwyn, pledged their support to him once more.

As Jon smiled out towards them, he became aware of Wolkan entering the room and hurrying towards him.

“Thank you, my lords, for your support.” Jon said loudly. “Together we will make them pay for their crimes against the North.”

Jon retook his seat, amidst renewed mutterings, this time speaking of their excitement at finally avenging their sons and daughters, brothers and sisters that they had lost.

“Well done, Jon,” Sansa said gripping his forearm.

“Yes, well done,” Dany echoed. “I am impressed.”

Jon nodded in response to their praise, before turning to Wolkan, who stopped behind them, his faced flushed from running.

“What is it, Wolkan?” Jon asked.

“Your Grace, Ser Davos has returned,” Wolkan replied, breathing heavily. “With a guest.”

Jon burst into a wide grin at this.

_So, my plan has worked,_ Jon thought, happily. _He is here._

“Show them in Wolkan.”

Wolkan nodded, before rushing off again. Jon, meanwhile, turned to Sansa, who was looking at him curiously.

“Now, you will see where I sent Ser Davos,” Jon said cryptically, smiling slightly.

After a moment, the doors opened once more. Davos walking in, looking tired and haggard from his travel, his beard longer than Jon had last seen it. He was accompanied by a tall, powerfully built, dark haired young man, whose face was covered by the beginnings of a bushy beard.

As Jon got to his feet to greet them, a shout came from Arya, one full of surprise and joy, that caused all eyes in the room to turn to her.

“Gendry!”

 


	27. Jaime IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you are, ladies and gents. Hope you enjoy.  
> Next up will be Arya.

           

Jaime

 

A couple of weeks had passed since Jaime’s last visit from anyone, and he was glad of it. He knew that he was lucky that he had come out of Qyburn’s last visit with his life. He remembered the grip of the Mountain around his throat, the choking feeling and the burning pain in his lungs as he suffocated. Not for the first time, Jaime wondered just what Qyburn could have done to him, to turn the already strong knight into the monster with inhuman strength that he was now.

As Jaime had laid on his bunk as the days past him by, blending into each other in the constant darkness of his cell, he heard more frequent and escalating riots, with the sound of blades clashing being more and more common, mixing with the sounds of screams and cries of people dying.

Jaime lay there listening, feeling powerless at hearing all of these people suffering under his sister’s rule. Especially as he knew that a lot of it was his fault, with his and Bronn’s assassination attempt only bolstering Cersei’s resolve to stamp out any and all dissent, her suspicion and paranoia of traitors in her ranks increasing by the day.

Jaime had overheard the guards outside his cell one night, their jaws loosened by boredom and the skin of wine that they were hiding beneath their cloaks and passing surreptitiously between them.

“The Queen is losing her mind,” one of them had slurred, as he leant again his spear.

“You have only just realised that?” the other had replied, spilling most of the remaining wine down his front. “She has been torturing and killing people since she took the throne. People are already calling her the Mad Queen.”

As the two of them talked, Jaime eased off of his bunk and slowly made his way closer to the door, desperate for any knowledge of what was happening in the world outside his cell.

“Ever since the Targaryen landed, she has gotten worse,” the first man replied, his serious tone evident even through his slurring voice. “She sees spies and traitors everywhere. At the merest whisper of a traitor, they are killed, along with their family. She executed half of her guard because the maester whispered in her ear that they might be plotting against her.”

“Were they?”

“Knowing how fucking crazy that cocksucker is, I doubt it. He probably just told her that because he felt like it.”

Hidden in his cell, Jaime had nodded his approval of the man’s words. It wouldn’t surprise Jaime if Qyburn _was_ using his influence over Cersei to simply kill and experiment on as many people as possible, for reasons that eluded Jaime. It could be simply because they had insulted him, or even just that he wanted to.

Jaime wasn’t sure which was worse, that Qyburn could be so vain and malicious, akin to Joffrey, or that he simply wished to hurt and kill these people, simply because he _could._

Jaime’s recollections were interrupted by the surprising sound of the door rattling open. Light flooded into the room, scorching into his eyes, so used to utter blackness. It took several moments before he could even attempt to open them again, squinting towards the door.

Cersei was standing there, with Qyburn standing alongside her. The two of them were flanked by the Mountain and another Kingsguard who, with his helm removed and held under his arm, Jaime recognised as Osmund Kettleblack, who had been made into the Kingsguard at Cersei’s request and had been her loyal man ever since.

He was a tall man, who was clearly well built, but despite his height, he was dwarfed by the titan of a man standing next to him. The man was looking down at Jaime with a look of disdain and revulsion on his face, which Jaime suspected was due to, in equal parts, his status as a traitor and the layer of filth that was undoubtedly covering his skin after weeks in the cell.

Jaime’s eyes were drawn to Cersei and his breath hitched in his chest.

Even the poor light of the torch, Jaime could see that she looked terrible. Her skin was pale and waxy looking, except for the large dark rings around her exhausted looking eyes, and Jaime could tell she had clearly not left the Keep in weeks. Her cheeks had hollowed, giving her face a gaunt, sunken look to it that was so at odds with how he had known her, it caused Jaime to feel a brief flitter of pity for her, which was quickly extinguished.

Jaime looked to her side and was furious to see Qyburn looking at him intently, a look of smug pleasure on his face. Jaime averted his gaze back to Cersei, knowing that the look on the man’s face would only serve to raise his ire, which had not gone well for him last time.

“Leave that fucking monster outside,” Jaime spat.

At his furious words, Kettleblack bristled and rattled his blade, in a move that was clearly supposed to be menacing.

“You do not dictate terms, traitor!” he bellowed, taking a step forward and half-drawing his sword. “And you will speak to the Queen with more-”

“Enough,” Cersei said, raising a hand to halt the man’s tirade.

Kettleblack looked a Cersei with a look of such dumbfounded shock on his face that Jaime had to stop himself from laughing. He then fully sheathed his blade once more, before retreating back once more, now glaring over at Jaime.

Cersei looked at Jaime before speaking softly.

“The Mountain will stay by my side, _Valonqar._ ”

“I wasn’t talking about the Mountain,” Jaime replied, not letting his frustration over her continual use of the prophecy to show. “I was talking about _him._ ”

Qyburn barely registered Jaime’s pointing, accusatory finger. Cersei merely looked between the two of them before shaking her head.

“He stays too,” he said simply.

Jaime ran his hand through his unkempt hair in frustration.

“What do you want Cersei?” he demanded.

Cersei paused for a moment, merely looking at him, before she answered.

“You.”

Cersei walked over to the narrow window and looked out, seemingly oblivious to the confused stare that Jaime was now giving her, completely at a loss for what she was talking about.

Just as he opened his mouth to ask her what she was talking about, she spoke, in a voice so quiet that it was like she was talking to herself.

“The unrest in the city is getting worse,” she said, not turning from the window. “The peasants revolt daily, and it is only getting worse with the news of the Dragon Whore and the Bastard now being allies.”

“Please tell me that you are not shocked?” Jaime asked incredulously.

Cersei turned from the window and looked at him angrily, but he was not deterred.

“You torture and kill them by the scores, or send them to the dungeons to be experimented on by _that_ madman. It cannot be a surprise to you that they might be welcoming the arrival of Daenerys.”

Cersei glared at him for a moment, but Jaime did not drop his gaze, merely staring defiantly back at her. After a moment of tense silence, Jaime spoke again.

“So why do you want me?”

At his words, Cersei’s expression shifted almost eerily fast. Her angry look disappeared, to be replaced by one of almost frantic desperation.

“The Targaryen girl has gone to the North, with Jon Snow, to rally his allies,” Qyburn stated simply, “The majority of her army has landed in Dorne, to meet up with the remaining houses of Dornish and the Reach who have pledged themselves to her. They are marching North to the capital as we speak.”

Jaime saw Cersei beginning to wring her hands, while mouthing what appeared to be curses. Jaime was growing more and more unsettled by her behaviour, which was increased when she flung herself at him and grasped hold of the front of shirt and began shaking it.

“Please, Jaime,” she begged, as tears fell down her cheeks. “You have to help me.”

As Jaime stood there, he became aware she was shaking, trembling against him. He saw the manic look in her eye and knew that, without a shadow of a doubt, she had lost her mind. The last time he had seen such a look of insanity had been the Mad King.

_It seems that her new name is very fitting,_ Jaime thought.

“What would you want me to do?” Jaime said. “There is not much that I can do from this cell.”

“We would release you, and give you command of thirty thousand men,” she replied, looking ever more frantic. “As well as a further five thousand conscripts from our camp at Tumbleton. You would then go to take Ashford, and hold it against the advance of the Targaryen bitch’s southern army.”

Jaime looked at her for a moment, not fully understanding.

_Why would they release me?_ Jaime thought suspiciously, looking between Cersei and Qyburn. _I have been branded a traitor._

As if to answer his question, Qyburn spoke.

“You are one of the best commanders that the Lannister army currently has. If anyone can hold Ashford, it will be you.”

“Will the men follow a traitor?” Jaime asked, still not convinced.

“Besides,” he continued, as he looked at Cersei and indicating to Qyburn. “Does your advisor believe that it is a good idea. You don’t do anything without his approval now.”

Cersei’s expression changed once more. She immediately let go of him and straightened up, glaring at him with malice on her face.

“It was his idea,” she spat. “To give you a chance to be remembered for something other than being a traitor.”

Jaime spun around to look at Qyburn, to be greeted by another smug look. Jaime furrowed his brow in confusion as he tried to comprehend the man’s decision as he glared at him. Qyburn hated him, so why would he allow him to leave the cell?

After a moment, Jaime realised just what he was doing.

Despite what he had done, and what she _believed_ that he was attempting to do, Jaime was sure that Cersei wouldn’t want to execute him. However, he had opposed the maester at every turn and, from his actions towards the others that had gone against him, Jaime was convinced that Qyburn wanted his head on a spike.

By sending him to Ashford to face the approaching army, which would no doubt outnumber their forces several times over, he could ensure Jaime’s death, while at the same time using his influence over Cersei to make it appear that Jaime would have a chance to contribute to repelling the Targaryen invasion.

_Sneaky, conniving little shit,_ Jaime thought, glaring at the maester.

Jaime was about to tell him where he could shove his plan, when he stopped himself. Even if it was as he suspected, as a part of Qyburn’s machinations, Jaime knew that he could do more out of the cell rather than in it. He could at least attempt to do _something_.

For the time being, he would have to play along with whatever scheme that he was hatching.

Jaime turned back to Cersei whose looked of desperate pleading was back on her face. Her constant shifts between moods was a little unnerving and made Jaime pause for a moment, before nodding his agreement. A look of relief overwhelmed Cersei’s face and for a moment it looked like she was going to fling her arms around him, before she grew serious once more.

“Ser Osmund will be accompanying you,” she said sternly, nodding towards the Kingsguard. “He will be keeping an eye on you, to make sure that you have no more inclinations towards treason.”

She then strode past without looking at him. Jaime caught eyes with Kettleblack and nodded sarcastically at him, who in return scowled and followed Cersei out of the room. Qyburn, however, remained behind, the Mountain moving forward and growling warningly. Jaime merely sighed as he laid back on bunk, having expected as much.

“Well it seems that whatever you are planning has worked, maester,” Jaime said, looking at the ceiling once more.

“It would appear so,” the man smirked, looking supremely pleased with himself.

“I must confess, I am a little disappointed,” Jaime replied. “I would think that your plan to kill me would be a little more elaborate.”

“Isn’t it?” Qyburn responded, his smug look not faltering for a moment. “We have received word that the army in the south numbers well over a hundred thousand men, with the vast majority of them being the Dragon Queen’s Dothraki horde, and you are being given thirty thousand men to repel them.

“If you face them in open battle, you will die. If you attempt to run, Kettleblack has been given instructions to hunt you down and kill you. If you attempt to surrender to the Targaryen forces, he will kill you.”

Jaime turned to look at him, his hatred for the man reaching a new level.

“So, you are sending thirty thousand men to their death, simply to kill me,” Jaime said incredulously.

“Not _just_ to kill you,” Qyburn responded. “This is merely the opening gambit in the war. We will probably lose this battle, but with your leadership, it will weaken Daenerys’ southern forces. And when they continue their march North, we have a few strategies in place for the coming battles.”

Jaime looked back at him, completely unable to comprehend the level of insanity the man was capable of.

“Get the fuck out,” Jaime said lowly.

Qyburn merely laughed before turning and leaving the cell, the Mountain following behind him. As the cell filled with darkness once more, Jaime felt a feeling of despair rise up within him, knowing that he was likely walking towards his death.

However, it was something else that Qyburn had said that the drew his attention.

_What other ‘strategies’ could they have planned?_

_*_

A few days later, Jaime was sitting on his bunk in his cell, dressed in his crimson and black Lannister armour, readying himself for when the guards would come to collect him for his journey to Ashford.

Cersei had demanded that he be washed and trimmed before leaving and Jaime had caught sight of his reflection while servants trimmed his scraggy hair and beard. It reminded him of when he arrived back in King’s Landing after being the prisoner of the Starks.

Except this time there was no family, no home to go back to. This time he was marching to his death.

Jaime had spent the days since the proposal trying to think of a way to get around the circumstance that Qyburn had mentioned, to find a way to end this without resulting in the deaths of thirty thousand men.

He knew that the key was to deal with Kettleblack.

He toyed with the idea of bringing him to confidence, to explain to him the true circumstances and reasons for their journey. However, Jaime quickly realised that this wouldn’t work. Kettleblack was Cersei’s man and regarded him as a traitor, and anything that he said against Cersei and her advisor would be seen as further treason and he might use it as an excuse to exercise his mandate to kill Jaime if he suspected anything.

Jaime then considered incapacitating him somehow. Before his maiming, Jaime knew that there would be little doubt in the outcome but he wasn’t sure that he could defeat the man with his left hand. Even if he could, Jaime knew that he would then be faced with explaining his actions to the Lannister men, many of whom wouldn’t take well to Jaime attacking a member of the Kingsguard.

Multiple plans and strategies swirled through his brain, making it difficult to sleep. What made it all the more frustrating is that he knew that none of them would be of much use. If he could find just _one_ idea that he could use, then the sleepless nights would be worth it.

But none came.

Jaime sat on his bunk, waiting for the door to open with a sinking feeling in his stomach. When the door finally rattled open and four Lannister guardsmen entered, Jaime took a deep, calming breath before standing up.

With his wrists being unable to be shackled properly, Jaime was frogmarched away from his cell, with his forearms being held in a vice-like grip and the points of two swords digging into his back.

Before long they reached the main doors, where a small crowd of loyal nobles were gathered. Cersei was stood there, dressed elegantly in what was clearly the first time in a while since she had been seen by her subjects. She was joined by Qyburn and Kettleblack, whose golden armour had clearly been cleaned for the occasion, gleaming brightly in the sunlight that streamed in from the windows.

Jaime came to a halt in front of them, glaring between them. Cersei returned his gaze, looking at him with both pity and a little fear.

“Your Grace,” Jaime said inclining his head slightly towards Cersei, feigning sincerity.

She barely nodding in response and, from the way her mouth thinned, Jaime could see that sensed his insincerity.

“Good fortune, Ser Jaime,” Qyburn said loudly, offering his hand to him.

Jaime glared back at the man, knowing that he was playing the crowd, that Jaime couldn’t say or do anything to retaliate if he wished to live. Jaime grasped the man’s hand firmly, all the while imagining smashing his golden hand into the man’s face repeatedly as he reaffirmed the promise that he had made him.

_I will have your life one day, you smirking piece of shit,_ Jaime though angrily.

Jaime released his hand and turned to Cersei, before bowing his head slightly.

“My Queen, if I may ask, what will happen in the North?” Jaime asked. “It will not do much if I manage to hold them back at Ashford, if Daenerys and the King in the North march south and attack.”

There was a collective intake of breath from the assembled lords at Jaime’s words. Out of the corner of his eye, Jaime saw Qyburn look between him and Cersei, looking concerned. Jaime knew that not only had he put Cersei on the spot by asking her to prove that she had a strategy in protecting the realm, but he had also explicitly called Jon a king, when Cersei had maintained that she was the only legitimate ruler in Westeros.

While Jaime knew that he was pushing his luck, and Cersei’s temper, to breaking point, but considering where he was heading, he wasn’t bothered much what she planned to do in retaliation. Cersei looked back at with a look of pure rage at his questioning of her, but then she looked at the various lords, who were all looking curious. Jaime guessed that many of them had wondered the same thing but were all too worried about Cersei’s reaction to ask.

Seeing their looks, Cersei took a breath and answered question, an undercurrent of menace to her voice.

“The Crakehalls will lead another thirty thousand men, from loyal houses, to Duskendale, where they will support House Rykker. They will safeguard us against the march of the Targaryen and her Northern allies.”

Many of the lords all nodded their approval, but Jaime guessed their agreement was less them thinking that it was a good plan and more that they were afraid that they would executed if they opposed it.

Jaime too nodded his approval, while all the while wondering just what plans they had if they could afford to spare sixty thousand men in these half-hearted plans. Ignoring Cersei’s renewed glare, Jaime turned to Kettleblack.

“Are we ready to leave?”

The knight looked to Cersei for approval, who jerked her head furiously towards him, clearly anxious for them to leave. Jaime was a little relieved that she at least seemed to be sticking to one emotion, even if it was anger. Her actions in the cell a few days before had really unsettled him.

As Jaime and Kettleblack began to descend the stairs from the keep, flanked on all sides by crimson-clad Lannister soldiers, Jaime turned back for a moment, knowing that it was likely the last time that he would see Cersei again. However, the thought of it didn’t affect him in the way that he knew that it would have a few years ago. He simply felt a feeling of relief, that he wouldn’t have to watch his sister spiral even further into madness.

As their small procession marched through the streets, Jaime became aware that there were no civilians in the streets, either to watch the group of soldiers march past their homes or even going about their daily lives. Jaime guessed that Cersei must be imposing even further restrictions on the populace to stem the tide of revolts.

They left the city through the Gate of the Gods, where all their men were waiting. As they made their way to the head of the group, Jaime saw a lot of the men giving him strange looks. While many of them were openly hostile, with several spitting on the ground as he passed them, several of them, including a few that Jaime vaguely remembered having served under him when he took Riverrun, merely nodding respectfully in his direction.

As he mounted his horse, Jaime felt a little better knowing that not _everyone_ that he was traveling with wanted to kill him. However, this good feeling was lessened when he looked to his right and saw Kettleblack glaring over at him, before putting on his helm and spurring his horse forward to be closer to Jaime’s steed, determined to keep him within reach at all times.

Jaime sighed deeply as they set off south, his mind once more churning with various theories as to what he could do about Kettleblack.

The march towards Tumbleton, and their conscripted reinforcements, was quite uneventful. However, Jaime was pleased to see, when he had taken a walk through the camp, closely followed by Kettleblack at every moment, that he seemed to have more support than he suspected, as a lot of the men who were following him had either been under his command before or simply supported his decision, although they didn’t dare openly state it in front of a Kingsguard.

It took them a day and a half to reach the camp outside of Tumbleton, which until recently had been sworn to the Tyrells. However, House Footly didn’t have the army to deal with the Lannister men that were currently garrisoning its walls. Jaime knew that the majority of the fighting men of the Reach were either in Dorne, to meet with Daenerys’ forces or were, Jaime guessed, guarding Highgarden against capture.

Jaime knew that the same would be true of Ashford, the remaining Tyrell and Reach men either guarding their capital or, also quite likely, guarding across the Prince’s Pass, one of the more likely, and certainly safer, ways for the Lannister forces to march into Dorne.

When they had made camp on the first day and had walked through the soldier’s encampment, Jaime looked around at the five thousand men that would soon be joining them. A lot of them, Jaime noticed, looked very young. He knew that Cersei had demanded fourteen-year-olds to fight, but that was not unusual in times of war.

However, several of them looked even younger. Including one of them, who hurried up to Jaime, his face glowing with excitement.

“Ser Jaime, it is an honour to meet you,” he said, bowing his head.

Now he was closer Jaime examined his face. The boy was clearly younger than fourteen, despite being tall for his age.

“Who are you, boy?” Kettleblack barked.

The young man jolted slightly at the knight’s harsh tone, before addressing them both.

“My name is Ethan, my lord,” the boy stammered, looking unsettled. “I fight for House Brax.”

“How old are you, Ethan?” Jaime asked, trying to sound more reassuring than Kettleblack.

“Fourteen,” he replied, a little too quickly.

Jaime raised an eyebrow at him, and the boy quickly deflated, clearly seeing that his lie was not being believed.

“Twelve,” he muttered quietly.

Jaime quickly glanced over at Kettleblack, and was a little annoyed to see that he didn’t seem taken aback, or even much care, about this information. Jaime looked past Ethan to see that many of the younger soldiers also barely looked fourteen. While some of them were tall enough to pass without suspicion and others clearly had the muscle needed, likely from working on their families’ farms, some of them looked so conspicuous that Jaime was shocked that nothing had been said before.

“Why are you, and the others who are clearly too young to fight, here?” Jaime demanded.

“To fight the Targaryens,” Ethan replied, as though it was the most obvious answer in the world. “My father fought under yours in the Sack of King’s Landing, and he told me all about what the Mad King did during the Rebellion.

“And now another Targaryen had returned, to bring their madness back upon us all,” the boy said, his voice growing angry.

“There are plenty worse than them,” Jaime muttered, as Cersei’s face filled his mind.

The words were out of his mouth before he knew what he was going to say, but the effect was immediate. Ethan looked shocked, as though Jaime had spoken some horrible blasphemy. Jaime guessed that the boy had heard his whole life that the Targaryen family were animals and everything that had happened to them, including the death of Aegon and Rhaenys, were deserved.

Kettleblack too looked at him strangely. Jaime knew that he suspected the true meaning behind his words but, as he couldn’t prove it, he didn’t wish to potentially turn the entire Lannister force against him by attacking their commander.

Wishing to remove himself from the centre of attention, Jaime turned back to Ethan.

“So, do the officers know that you and a lot of the others here are too young to be fighting?” Jaime asked sternly.

Rather than making the boy look concerned, anxious at his discovery, he merely straightened up to his full height and looked back defiantly.

“They know. They saw how much we wished to fight for Queen Cersei and allowed us to join, to fight her enemies.”

Jaime looked back at the young boy, his face shining with pride and the prospect of fining glory fighting for his queen, and felt a rush of pity for him and anger toward Cersei and the officers who were allowing him and others to do so, taking advantage of their patriotism to fight their battles.

Jaime vaguely heard Kettleblack dismiss Ethan and saw him rush over to receive his rations. He ran past several officers, none of whom gave him a second look, which only served to increase Jaime’s fury.

But the worst thing was knowing that he could do nothing to stop it, lest it be used by Kettleblack as proof of his treason. The Kingsguard could easily twist the situation to make it look like Jaime was intentionally weakening their focus to give the Targaryens an easy victory.

“I would be careful with your words, Ser Jaime,” Kettleblack muttered. “If you are not careful, someone might think you were planning treason again.”

Jaime rounded on the man, the implied threat making his blood boil even further.

“You think that _this_ is right?” Jaime demanded, pointing towards where Ethan was standing. “Allowing children to fight?”

“They are merely loyal,” the Kingsguard snapped back. “Willing to fight for their Queen.”

“A ruler who sends children to fight their wars is not one worthy of loyalty,” Jaime growled, before walking away before the knight could respond.

As Jaime walked back to his tent he passed by several more of the child soldiers, all sitting around and wondering aloud about the glory they hoped to win, completely unaware that their ruler and Qyburn were sending them to their deaths.

It fuelled Jaime’s desire to end this quickly, and hopefully without bloodshed.

*

They continued their march south the following day. Jaime had sent scouts ahead of them, with their fastest horses, to give them a better idea of what they were facing.

When they returned, they confirmed Jaime’s suspicions. Most of the available fighting men had either gone further south into Dorne or they had gone to defend Highgarden. However, this had left several smaller Reach houses, such as House Caswell of Bitterbridge or House Meadows of Grassy Vale, very vulnerable, with very few men being there to defend them. If Jaime had been inclined to, he knew that both of these keeps would fall very quickly.

But he was not, to the consternation of Kettleblack and many of the officers.

“We were told to take and hold Ashford,” Jaime had barked, when he had grown tired of being questioned from all sides. “Nothing else. Now if you have a problem with the Queen’s orders, then I suggest you tell her of it when we return to King’s Landing.”

After that, no one had openly questioned his decision to leave the small keeps alone.

However, there were still a few skirmishes as they marched towards Ashford, mainly from groups of archers that took up positions on the high ground. They were often dealt with quickly when they saw how big the host that Jaime led was and surrendered.

A few days later Ashford came into view. Its keep was built in a triangle, with thirty foot towers at the points, connected by thick walls. The town surrounding it was made up of thatched houses and Jaime could tell, even from so far away, that it had been abandoned.

_They had likely sought refuge in the keep_ , Jaime thought. _At least Cersei and Qyburn thought to give us siege weaponry._

As they grew closer, Jaime could feel the soldiers all begin to get more and more restless, eager for a fight, but Jaime had other ideas. When they reached Ashford, Jaime came to a halt and turned to the various officers that had been riding at his side.

“Surround the town,” Jaime ordered. “And sent a messenger to the keep. Tell Lord Ashford that we are here to discuss his surrender.”

Despite many of them grumbling under their breath, they went to follow his orders. For the next hour or so, Jaime watched as his men fell into position, ready for this to either become a protracted siege, not a favourable option, or to attempt to take the keep. His eyes always drifted back to the keep, waiting for if and when Lord Ashford would respond to his message.

Just when Jaime was beginning to think that Ashford would ignore it, the doors opened. Jaime felt the men behind him tense slightly, despite the group leaving the keep only numbering around half a dozen.

As they came closer, Jaime saw that a few of them were bearing the white sun on orange standard of House Ashford. The man that Jaime assumed was Lord Ashford, an elderly man in fine clothes, rode surrounded by six of guardsmen.

“Lord Ashford,” Jaime said, when the man reached him.

“Kingslayer,” the man replied confidently.

Jaime sighed deeply, ignoring the slight as he often did, before continuing.

“We are here to discuss your surrender.”

Ashford laughed at this.

“ _You_ are here to discuss my surrender,” he said. “I am merely here what proposal the queen wishes to suggest.

“Why would I surrender?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “We received word that the Targaryen army is only a few days from us. All we have to do is wait.”

“That is true, my lord,” Jaime conceded. “But there is one thing that you have to consider.”

Jaime paused for a moment, feeling a little relish at the sight of the man’s face contorting into an expression of confusion.

“The Targaryen army isn’t here yet, but ours’ is. And who says they are heading here? What if they head to Highgarden first, to rest and regroup? How long do you think that your walls and men could last against thirty-five thousand men, which _you_ can’t match, and siege weapons?”

 Ashford’s face slackened slightly in shock at Jaime’s words. He then fell silent and Jaime could see him running his words over and over in his head, seeing the logic in them. The keep _was_ a good defensible position, but Jaime had seeded doubt in the man’s head, questions that weren’t easily answered.

Jaime knew that neither option was particularly good for them. The Targaryen army as it was currently numbered over a hundred thousand men, and that was without the men currently defending Highgarden that would join them if they went there first.

Jaime sighed deeply, once again cursing the situation that he was in before he addressed Ashford once more.

“Lord Ashford,” he said, in a reassuring tone. “Your ability to repel us isn’t guaranteed. You know that. If you surrender to us, then I give you my word that you and everyone within your walls will be unharmed.”

“Ha!” Ashford scoffed in response. “The word of a kingslayer! A kingslayer who has recently committed treason once more, if the stories are true.”

“Well,” Jaime replied simply. “You will have to accept the word of a kingslayer or, if you don’t, it shouldn’t take us long to breach these walls, with the men and weaponry that we have.”

Jaime hadn’t meant for his words to sound so blunt and callous but they seemed to work. Ashford slumped slightly, a look of defeat on his face. He turned back to Castle Ashford and looked at it for a moment, before retuning his gaze to Jaime.

“Very well, kingslayer,” he spat vehemently. “Let us see what your _word_ is worth.”

While Jaime was both pleased and surprised that he had managed to take Ashford without bloodshed, the following few hours were, in many ways, as stressful if they had taken the town by force.

The organising of getting Lord Ashford and the remaining occupants of the town into imprisonment would have been a task in itself, if it wasn’t for the news that a few of the Lannister soldiers had taken to looting the houses of the townsfolk and, in a few cases, taken their pick of the female captives.

Jaime had been furious when he had heard this. While he knew that this often happened in war, he had seen it himself in the Sack of King’s Landing, _this_ hadn’t been a war. These people had surrendered, and Jaime had given his word that the inhabitants would remain unharmed.

Jaime ordered that the offending men were to be imprisoned separately from the Ashford captives, and to be put on lesser rations than their prisoners of war, a decision that hadn’t gone down well.

Jaime, however, was not sympathetic to their protestations.

“I have given Lord Ashford my word that I would leave him and his people unharmed,” Jaime had growled at the officers when they had raised objections. “And, because of the actions of those men, now that word has been broken. Regardless of whether you see me as a traitor or not, I was put in command of these men. Those men _will_ be imprisoned for their crimes, to face further justice later, because that is my _command._ ”

For the next few days, Jaime moved the Lannister host to establish a defensive perimeter around the town, with the most heavily defended section facing towards the potential oncoming Targaryen army.

A week later, Jaime was walking through the soldiers’ encampment when a messenger ran up to him, looking flustered and scared.

“Ser Jaime,” he shouted, drawing the eye of everyone nearby. “They are here.”

A hush immediately feel over everyone within earshot, and Jaime felt his heart sink. While he knew that they were coming, the fact that they were finally here made his heart begin to pound like a drum in his chest.

As he shouted for them all to get prepared for battle, Jaime raced toward the southernmost tower of the keep, to get a better view of the enemy, with Kettleblack hot on his heels.

When he reached it, Jaime immediately halted in his tracks, his heart hammering in his chest.

A black mass of people were coming over the horizon, the speed with which they were covering ground clearly showing that they were on horses. Jaime was in awe and terror in equal measures at the scale of the army approaching them, as was Kettleblack, if the man’s face was anything to go by.

As the Lannister forces formed a defensive line facing the oncoming attackers, Jaime shifted his gaze to look at the men assembled alongside him. Their faces were, to a man, covered by looks of terror at the sight of the gargantuan army bearing down upon them.

Jaime looked to his left and saw Ethan, the young man’s face contorted with fear as he watching the oncoming horde heading towards them. Before long the army had grown close enough for Jaime to see that the majority of them were shirtless, sitting astride their horses with curved blades.

_Dothraki,_ Jaime thought, remembering how the bulk of Daenerys Targaryen’s forces were comprised of them.

Jaime was surprised when the Dothraki suddenly came to a halt, just out of range of any of the Lannister archers or ballistae. From the little that he knew about the Dothraki, they were not known for their strategy.

However, this mystery was solved when part of the horde parted and small group of men came to the fore, led by a man who was seated under a red huntsman banner, held by a bannerman behind him.

_Randyll Tarly_ , Jaime thought, recognising the sigil.

They sat there for a moment, staring back at the unyielding mass of bodies facing them in despair. Jaime knew that, even if he managed to get all of his men back inside the keep, it wouldn’t take long for the gate to be breached, given that the Dornish and Reach armies would have siege weaponry.

Thinking quickly, Jaime realised that he had no other choice.

Forgetting all about the threats from Qyburn, of which actions that would result in his death, Jaime turned to Kettleblack.

“We need to surrender,” Jaime said quickly. “They will overwhelm us if we try to fight them. Our only hope of survival is if we surrender to them.”

As Jaime’s voice carried to the surrounding men, he could sense a feeling of agreement from the men. Kettleblack, on the other hand, didn’t agree.

“Cowardice, Ser Jaime?” he growled, leaning forward so his face was mere inches from Jaime’s. “We were ordered to hold this town from the Targaryen forces, and we will do so.”

“You fool!” Jaime roared, standing his ground. “Those aren’t Westerosi knights! They are only pausing because of Tarly’s orders. If we do not surrender _now_ , they will slaughter us all! The Dothraki do not speak the Common Tongue, so they will not hear your pleas of mercy!”

Jaime could feel the assembled men almost shiver slightly at his words. Looking around him, Jaime could see that the vast majority of the men seemed to agree with him that surrender seemed to be preferable to dying.

“We will do as Her Grace commands,” Kettleblack roared. “As will _you_ , Ser Jaime.”

“I will _not_ send thirty-five _thousand_ men to their deaths because of my sister’s fucking idiocy!” Jaime shouted, his voice carrying over the Lannister men.

As he heard renewed rumblings of agreement at his words, an idea struck him. And idea that had eluded him for weeks… until now.

“The Kingsguard believes that we should give our lives against the Dothraki horde in service to my sister,” Jaime roared, turning to address the men. “What do _you_ all think of his plan?”

As the men all roared their disagreement, Jaime turned back Kettleblack, unable to prevent a contented grin from crossing his face. He knew that inciting the men like this was probably a poor decision, but at this point he was willing to try _anything_ to stop this madness.

Kettleblack looked furious and was just about to draw his blade when a horn sounded below them. They all turned as one to see the Dothraki archer fire a warning volley towards the keep. The arrows fell far, far short of the keep but their message was clear.

Taking advantage of the man’s distraction, Jaime swung his golden hand and smashed it into the back of Kettleblack’s head, knocking the man to the floor senseless. Before the Kingsguard could regain his sense, Jaime took the man’s sword and turned to the men.

“Make sure that he is restrained,” Jaime barked, causing several men to grab hold of the barely conscious Kingsguard.

Jaime then turned to the messenger who had found him earlier.

“Go to the Targaryen’s army. Give them our surrender.”

The man looked at Jaime for a moment, with a pleading look on his face, as though he wanted _anyone_ other than him to be sent with this message. However, he soon turned and hurried off.

Jaime stood at the top of the tower, watching the man approach the Dothraki, under a flag of surrender. Jaime and the rest of the men watched with baited breath, with Jaime praying to gods that he didn’t even believe in for their plan to work.

After several agonising moments that seemed that like several hours, the messenger turned and hurried back to the keep and the Dothraki force, as one lowered their weapons.

Jaime exhaled deeply, feeling a wave of relief wash over him, knowing that, for the time being at least, they would live. He knew that he would likely not be Daenerys’ favourite person, for killing her father, and that he would likely be executed when she arrived in King’s Landing.

But he had achieved, against all odds, the task that he had set himself. The men that he had under his command had all survived, without bloodshed.

Jaime waited until the Targaryen forces had gotten closer before he headed down to meet them. As he did so, he passed Ethan and saw that the boy was shaking uncontrollably with fear.

_His loyalty is clearly not helping him now,_ Jaime though, as he felt a rush of pity for the boy.

When Jaime left the keep, he headed towards the small group of mounted men that had approached him, clearly the leadership of the army. Jaime vaguely recognised Randyll Tarly from the few times that he had come to King’s Landing under Robert Baratheon’s rule.

However, he was a little surprised to see Varys sat among them, looking unchanged from the last time that Jaime had seen him. And next to him was…

“Tyrion!” Jaime shouted, overjoyed and shocked in equal measure at the sight of his brother.

He was thickly bearded now but Jaime would recognise his brother anywhere, his scarred face stretched into a smile. Tyrion, Varys and the others all dismounted their horses and approached them as one.

As they grew closer, Jaime saw that Tyrion, while clearly happy to see him, was also looking a little apprehensive, clearly unsure what Jaime’s reaction would be over his murder of their father. Jaime himself didn’t know if he wanted to punch him or hug him more.

“Ser Jaime,” Varys said politely. “It is good to see you again, and that you have seen reason.”

“Varys,” Jaime acknowledged, not averting his eyes from Tyrion, who wouldn’t meet his gaze.

Reaching a decision Jaime strode forward and, ignoring the raised weapons from the Dothraki, bent down and hugged Tyrion.

“Little brother,” he said, feeling Tyrion hug him back.

After a moment, Jaime pulled back and looked into his brother’s face, who was looking both happy and relieved.

“I didn’t know how you would…” Tyrion said, trailing off.

“I am happy to see you,” Jaime said, nodding. “But I am also still _furious_ that you killed our father. I understand _why_ you did, but… it isn’t easy to accept.”

As Tyrion nodded his understanding at his words, Jaime became aware of several Dothraki surrounding him. He looked around him and saw that his men were also being shackled and led to the dungeons by Dothraki.

Turning back to Tyrion, Jaime smiled wryly at him.

“Back into a cell, then?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m sorry, Jaime, but yes,” Tyrion replied nodding.

Jaime reached out and gripped his brother’s small shoulder and smiled reassuringly at him.

“It is fine, brother. I am sure that this cell will be better than the last.”


	28. Arya IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait between chapters lately everyone. Real life has been catching up with me a lot lately.  
> I also have good news and bad news. The good news is I found a job (finally! haha) but the bad news is that there will likely only be one upload a week for good from now as my writing time has been cut a lot.  
> But don’t worry. I have NO intention of stopping writing this fic. It might take a bit longer between chapters, but I will definitely be carrying on.  
> Anyway, I hope you all enjoy it.  
> Next up will be Tyrion.

 

Arya

 

Arya could feel the eyes of everyone in the hall on her after her outburst, but she didn’t much care. She merely stared down at the face of her old friend, unable to believe what she was seeing.

Gendry had always been taller than her, but Arya could see that he had grown even more and Arya suspected that the top of her head would barely reach his nose. The beard was a little bit of a shock to her, mainly because it, along with the much more muscled physique that he now had, reminded her of someone, although she couldn’t place who.

As he grew closer, Arya could see a few more differences in him. Most notably were the scars on his face. The most notable was crescent shaped one that started above his left eye, curved along the bridge of his nose and finished just under his eye again. There was also a thinner scar, a line across his left cheek, the end of which was swallowed by his beard.

While Arya could tell that the scar on his cheek was clearly due to a blade, the scar around his eye was a little harder to explain. It made Arya wonder what kind of trouble a blacksmith could get in to have such injuries.

_Unless…_

As Arya took in these injuries, as well as his bigger physique, she began to wonder:

_Had he gone back to being a blacksmith? Or was there something else? And what does Jon need from him?_

She remembered him telling Sansa that he had sent Davos off on a task for him when he had left Dragonstone.

_How did Davos and Jon know about Gendry? What do they have planned for him?_

However, before she could think on it any more, Gendry had come to a stop in front of the high table and turned to her, his beard twitching as he smiled widely at her, which Arya returned. Out of the corner of her eye, Arya could see Sansa giving her a knowing smile, which she pointedly ignored.

Arya turned to see Jon standing to his feet, giving her a small smirk before turning to the two men standing before him.

“Ser Davos, welcome back to Winterfell,” Jon said loudly.

“I thank you, Your Grace,” Davos replied, bowing his head. “May I present, Gendry, the bastard of Robert Baratheon, as you requested.”

As a murmur of interest rippled through the crowd, Arya’s head snapped around to look at Jon, who didn’t seem surprised by this revelation. Arya could see Daenerys turning to look at Jon, with a look of surprise on her face. Arya turned to look and Gendry and met his eye.

He looked at her for a moment before nodding, confirming the story. Now she had heard it, she could see the resemblance and knew that it had been Robert that she had been thinking of earlier. The beard, which was a lot less wild than his father’s, was certainly helping and he shared his father’s facial features, as well as his blue eyes. As Arya looked around the hall, many of the lords were looking at Gendry with interest and then turning to those around them and nodding.

They did not, however, look that surprised by the information, but Arya quickly remembered overhearing people talking during her time in King’s Landing about how Robert would frequent the many brothels throughout the city. It clearly was not a surprise to many that he might have had a bastard child.

Arya wondered how long Gendry had known this for. He hadn’t mentioned while they had been travelling together and Arya was sure that if he had known then he would have told her.

 _Had the Red Woman told him?_ Arya pondered. _And, now that I think of it, how did he escape from her?_

However, Arya now understood why they had been hounded by goldcloaks on their trek north, that had resulted in the death of Yoren and Lommy. Before Arya could think on it any more, her attention was caught when Jon spoke once again.

“I am impressed, Ser Davos,” Jon was saying. “You accomplishing your task, despite the danger.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Davos replied, inclining his head once more. “I found Gendry in King’s Landing, as a member of a local mercenary gang.”

Arya looked back at Gendry and the scars on his face made a lot more sense now. Despite this, Arya was still wondering what could have caused the one around his eye, as it doesn’t look like one that he received in a fight.

“Queen Daenerys,” Davos said, turning to her. “Word of your arrival to Westeros has reached the people of King’s Landing. There are now daily riots against Cersei Lannister. The hatred that she has from the common people is growing by the day. During one of these riots we were able to smuggle ourselves from the city.”

Arya saw a smile spread across Daenerys’ face at this news, but she wasn’t really paying much attention. She was busy staring at Gendry and wondering just what had happened that had resulted in him becoming a mercenary in a city that was full of people looking for him.

“Thank you, Ser Davos,” Jon said, before indicating towards one of the tables. “Please rest, as I am sure that you must be tired from your travels.”

Davos nodded his thanks and made his way over to where the red-haired wilding, Tormund, was sitting, who rose to his feet and embraced his friend before slapping him on the back in congratulations. Arya watched with a smirk on her face as Davos and the Wilding each grabbed a tankard of ale and shared a toast.

“Welcome to Winterfell, Gendry,” Jon said, returning his attention to the guest.

“Thank you,” Gendry replied uncertainly, as he looked around him. “But, if I may ask, why am I here? Davos wouldn’t tell me everything.”

Arya turned to Jon and saw him motion to Gendry to wait a moment. Furrowing her brow in confusion, Arya watched as Jon leaned down to whisper something into Daenerys’ ear. Whatever he said to her seemed to please Daenerys, as a broad smile spread across her face.

Arya then saw her place her hand on Jon’s shoulder and murmur her thanks, and a smirk crossed Arya’s face. She had noticed the growing affection between the two of them, regardless of recent revelations, and, while she was a little wary of Daenerys, Arya couldn’t deny the fact that Jon always seemed to be more at ease and less of his usual stoic self when he was around her.

Then, as Jon took his seat, Daenerys rose to her feet to address Gendry.

“It is no secret that there is bad history between your father and my family,” Daenerys said and, although she said it without any noticeable anger in her voice, the silence in the hall was palpable. Gendry too looked a little unsettled by this, as it was common knowledge the way that Robert Baratheon had despised the Targaryen family.

However, Daenerys gave Gendry a small reassuring smile.

“However, I do not wish to judge you for the actions of your father, just as I hope that you, and others in the kingdoms, will not judge me for the actions of my own.”

Gendry visibly exhaled in relief at these words, before nodding his assent jerkily. His face, however, was still covered by a look of confusion, his question still remaining unanswered.

“I want to offer you a deal, Gendry,” Daenerys said calmly. “In return for the loyalty of House Baratheon and their vassals, I intend to legitimise you, to make you Gendry Baratheon, the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.”

Arya’s mouth dropped open in surprise at these words, an action that was mirrored by Gendry, whose confused expression increased further as he stared up at Daenerys. Arya saw Gendry raise his eyebrows, as if expected Daenerys to then say that she wasn’t serious.

However, this did not happen.

Daenerys merely stood there, awaiting Gendry’s reply. He stood there, swallowing hard, clearly at a loss for what he should say.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” he said weakly. “But I am not sure that I am the best person for that. I’ve spent my whole life as a blacksmith. I can hardly read or write. I haven’t learnt _how_ to be the lord of a House.”

“You will have a maester for that,” Jon said kindly. “As well as many advisors as you would need. You don’t have to make all these decisions alone. I know that I would be lost without the counsel of my advisors.”

“As would I,” Daenerys echoed.

Gendry groaned slightly and raised his hands to his face, clearly struggling with the decision. Arya wanted to say something, to help him, but she knew that she couldn’t make this decision for him. After a moment, Gendry raised his head and looked at her, and Arya could clearly see the indecision and uncertainty on his face.

She gave him a warm smile and nodded at him, silently telling him that she would stand by him whatever he chose. At her silent look of support, Gendry took a deep breath and turned back to Daenerys before bowing his head slightly.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Gendry said, as he raised himself back up to his full height. “I accept your offer.”

There was an outbreak of excited mutterings from the hall and Arya beamed down at Gendry, happy that her friend has achieved such a rise in his station. Arya hastily rearranged her face when she saw Sansa looking at her again, smiling at her pointedly. However, Sansa took longer for her smile to fade, with Arya determinedly not meeting her eyes, knowing the reason behind her sister’s smile.

 _She thinks that Gendry and I hold some affection for each other_ , Arya realised.

While Arya knew that she did have warm feelings for Gendry, she was sure that they were because of the time that they had spent together while on the run from the Lannisters, when they had forged a close friendship.

And yet…

The elation that Arya had felt when she had seen Gendry enter had confused her with how strongly she had felt. While she had felt relief and elation when she had been reunited with Nymeria and her family, this had felt _different._

Just as strong, but different.

Arya shook her head slightly, annoyed that she had dwelled on these feelings, not something that she was used to doing. Determined to keep these thoughts out of her mind for now, she returned her attention to Gendry who was currently being legitimised by Daenerys.

“Arise, Gendry Baratheon,” Daenerys declared, and a round of cheering and banging of goblets greeted him as he rose to his feet.

Arya knew that the Northern lords were merely extending the courtesy to Gendry because he was a new ally to them against Cersei but also, and Arya guessed more importantly, because of the bond that had existed between the houses of Stark and Baratheon because of Eddard and Robert’s friendship.

 _A bond that can now be rebuilt,_ Arya thought resolutely.

As Daenerys walked back to her seat, Jon rose from his own to address the hall once more. Arya saw him beckon Wolkan over to him and whisper something into his ear. The maester nodded his head in understanding before hurrying off.

After glancing over at Arya quickly, Jon offered Gendry a seat among the other lords. Gendry nodded his head and muttered his thanks to Jon before walking off to sit nearby to where Davos and Tormund were sitting, still drinking between them.

Once the hall had quietened again, Jon smiled before he spoke.

“I thank you all again, my lords,” Jon said, looking from face to face. “For your loyalty and your agreement to support us in our march south. We shall leave Winterfell in three days’ time to head south.

“Gather your men, my lords,” Jon continued, still looking between the lords, and Arya was filled with pride for her brother when she saw the looks of determined loyalty that the men had when they looked at Jon, after his speech earlier. “We shall meet at Moat Cailin as soon as is possible.”

As the lords made a collective noise of acknowledgement, Jon retook his seat and engaged in conversation with Daenerys, and Arya could see that they were both looking pleased with the outcome. Arya scanned the room and saw the lords begin to clear the room, with many of them diverting themselves to speak with Gendry, who looked both pleased and nervous by having so much attention for the lords of the North.

Arya’s attention was grabbed when Bran jabbed her gently in the ribs. She turned to see him smiling at her.

“It must feel strange for him,” Bran said, looking over at Gendry and Arya followed his gaze. “Being raised up like that, when he is a bastard. Just like how Jon felt when he was made King in the North, even though…”

Although Bran tailed off, Arya could guess his meaning. While Jon’s parentage was common knowledge among the siblings, they had made a point of not talking about it too often. However, it would sometimes come up in conversations inadvertently and it would result in an awkward silence falling between them, much like now.

The silence was interrupted by the sound of Jon, Sansa and the others rising from their seats. Almost unconsciously, Arya mirrored their actions and turned towards Sansa.

“Jon wants us to meet in his study before we head to our chambers for the night,” Sansa explained, in response to Arya’s curious look. “He wants to explain to us all his plan with Gendry before he begins the preparations tomorrow.”

 _After Littlefinger’s execution_ , Arya thought, feeling a vicious satisfaction at the idea.

As Arya turned to follow Sansa out of the hall, with several guardsmen heading over to pick Bran up, she looked over to where Gendry was sat with Davos and Tormund. Jon was standing with them, clearly explaining his idea. Davos and Gendry both rose to their feet, nodding their agreement. Tormund however got to his feet, laughing and shaking his head, before staggering from the hall.

Jon turned around and walked towards them, shaking his head slightly in exasperation, while smirking slightly.

“Is Tormund not joining us?” Sansa asked when Jon reached them.

“No, these kinds of plans don’t really interest him,” Jon replied, still smiling. “And, besides, he has had too much to drink.”

Still chuckling, Jon led them to his study. Arya looked over her shoulder and saw that Daenerys and Jorah were accompanying them, in addition to the Stark siblings, Davos and Gendry.

Before long, they reached Jon’s study and, once they entered, they saw what Jon had sent Wolkan to do. Jon’s desk was covered by a map of Westeros, with several chairs surrounding the table. As Arya took a chair, seating herself between Jon and Sansa, she saw that Wolkan was seated in another, behind Jon’s large throne-like seat, a large stack of papers on his lap.

Before long everyone was seated around the table, with Jon and Daenerys seated beside each other, on one side of the table, with Gendry facing them on the other. Jorah stood by the door once more, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. As everyone took their seats, Arya examined the map, and all of the small figures on it that represented the armies that were amassing throughout the kingdoms.

Her eyes were automatically drawn to the North, to the drawing of Winterfell. Grouped around it were figures that represented, among others, the Stark wolf, the Targaryen three-headed dragon, the Mormont bear and the Manderly merman.

Arya looked further down to area representing the Crownlands. At the pride of place was the Lannister lion. The sight of it made Arya’s stomach begin writhing in anger, so she averted her gaze from it as quickly as she could. Surrounding the lion were the sigils of many of the Lannister’s sworn houses, such as the black manticore of House Lorch, the boar of House Crakehall and the dogs of House Clegane.

 _I wonder if the Hound would head south?_ Arya wondered, as she stared at the sigil of the Clegane. _The Brotherhood might only want to fight the White Walkers, but the Hound hates his brother more._

Arya looked around these figures to see those surrounding it. When she saw the lightning bolt sigil of House Dondarrion and the turtle of House Esthermont, Arya quickly guessed that these houses were those who were sworn to House Baratheon but were now following Cersei because of her marriage to Robert.

Further south, in the Dornish region of the map, Arya saw another Targaryen dragon figure, surrounded by, in pride of place, the Tyrell rose and the Martell sun and spear. Despite having very little knowledge about battle tactics, Arya knew enough to see that attacking Cersei’s forces from two sides seemed like a good plan.

Once everyone was seated around the table, Jon cleared his throat and leaned forward.

“So,” he said, looking between them. “I promised that I would tell you all my plan soon enough, and where I sent Ser Davos.

“As we left Dragonstone I sent Davos, as you can see, to find Gendry,” Jon continued, rising to his feet. “Now that he is legitimised, we might be able to deprive Cersei of some of her forces.”

As he said this, Jon reached out and picked up some of the figures. As he rolled them in his hand, Arya saw that they all were of houses sworn to House Baratheon.

“If we tell them that there is another Baratheon for them to rally behind, one with _actual_ Baratheon blood and not Lannister bastards, then they could defect from her cause, to our own.”

Jon placed the figures back on the map, in between the Stark-Targaryen armies and those of the Lannisters, with his meaning clear:

These houses were to fight for.

“But will they follow a bastard?” Gendry asked, meeting Jon’s eye as he retook his seat. “Will all these houses agree to follow me, even if I am legitimised?”

“ _I_ am a bastard,” Jon said kindly. “People follow me.”

“But people _know_ that you are the bastard of Eddard Stark,” Gendry replied, and Arya was aware that the Stark children and Daenerys were actively avoiding each other’s eyes, trying to not give anything away. “There is no _proof_ that I am Robert Baratheon’s son.”

“Your look will be enough,” Jon replied.

“Jon is right,” Sansa said kindly. “I met your father a few times, when we joined our father in going to King’s Landing, and you look a lot like him, Gendry.”

Arya nodded her agreement. The more that she looked at him, with what she now knew, the more that she saw the resemblance between Gendry and his father.

 _Very few will doubt that this is Robert’s son,_ Arya thought.

Gendry sighed and shook his head slightly, and Arya could tell that he still wasn’t completely on board with the idea of him being a lord. After a moment, Gendry’s curiosity seemed to get the better of him and he leaned forward to look at the figures on the map.

“These houses that you think will follow me,” Gendry said, picking one of the figures up and looking at it. “Who are they?”

Jon turned to Wolkan who, taking this as his cue, rummaged through the sheaf of papers on his lap until he found what he looking for. He then stood up and cleared his throat.

“Until recently, there were three branches of House Baratheon,” Wolkan said to Gendry. “These branches were seated at Storm’s End, King’s Landing and Dragonstone. However, the vast majority of the Houses that were loyal to the Dragonstone branch of the House, led by Stannis, have now declared their fealty to Queen Daenerys.

“However, those Houses who are, for the moment at least, loyal to Cersei include Houses such as Rykker, Kettleblack, Swann and Selmy. There are, obviously, many more of them, throughout the Stormlands and the Crownlands.”

Wolkan then attempted to pass the sheet of parchment to Gendry, who took it with a puzzled look on his face, before looking back at Wolkan with a questioning look on his face. The maester then shook his head quickly, clearly annoyed at himself for his lapse.

“Have no fear, Lord Gendry,” Wolkan said quickly. “I will aid you in learning them, if you wish, before you head south.”

Gendry didn’t react for a moment, as he had clearly been shocked by the first part of Wolkan’s sentence.

“Lord Gendry?” he muttered under his breath. “That is something that I never expected to hear.”

Arya looked at Gendry for a moment, feeling a little concerned when he simply stared at the map for a moment. After a somewhat awkward silence, Gendry rose to his feet.

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking between them. “But I need some time alone.”

Jon nodded in acknowledgement and Gendry turned and left the study. Arya watched him go, feeling a little concerned for her friend. Her attention was soon grabbed when Jon laid his hand on her wrist, causing her to meet his eye.

“He will be fine,” Jon whispered, the knowing look in his eye so similar to the look that Sansa had been giving her. “I know from experience that this is a lot to take in at first.”

Arya nodded in response, as she too looked towards the map. Her eyes fell on the figures of the Stormlands houses, sat in between the Stark-Targaryen and Lannister forces. The houses that could potentially be key turning point in the war.

“I hope your plan works, Jon,” she said quietly.

“So do I,” Jon replied, gripping her wrist gently before letting go.

Jon turned to Wolkan, who had returned to chair behind him.

“Wolkan, send ravens to all Houses who declare their loyalty to House Baratheon. Inform them that Gendry, the last known living son of Robert Baratheon, has been legitimised and has made an alliance with Queen Daenerys and the King in the North. And then we shall see which of those Houses are still loyal to the Baratheon name.”

Wolkan nodded his understanding, as he continued to scribble down what Jon was saying before hurrying from the room. Arya wanted to follow him, to go and find Gendry to see how he was handling this new development, as she knew that Jon was right in thinking that Gendry might be struggling with this upheaval in his life.

“We will leave in a few days,” Jon said suddenly, turning to Arya and the other Starks siblings. “Sansa, I would like you to join us. At least as far as Riverrun.”

Arya looked back at Jon, looking confused, but Sansa nodded her understanding next to her.

“To get Uncle Edmure’s support,” she said aloud, with Jon nodding his agreement

“What about Bran and I?” Arya asked.

“You two will remain here in Winterfell,” Jon replied, looking a little uneasy, as though expecting anger.

Arya _was_ a little angry, but as she opened her mouth to argue, Jon leaned forward and placed his hand on her shoulder.

“’There must always be a Stark in Winterfell’.” Jon said, quoting their father. “Sansa is the best choice to bring to Riverrun with us. Besides the fact that she is the best of us at the politics that we might need, she is the eldest of you. Sansa has met Edmure more that you have, so he will know her the most.”

Arya wasn’t completely convinced but she could accept the logic behind Jon’s words. She just wasn’t happy at having her family, and now Gendry, all reunited, and now having to split apart again.

“Well, I think we are done for now,” Jon said, as he rubbed his eyes. “I need to speak with the Brotherhood before I retire for the night. I haven’t spoken to them since I returned.”

One by one they all rose from their chairs and left the study, with Arya being one of the first to leave. She hurried through the halls of Winterfell towards the guest rooms where Gendry would be sleeping. As she headed there, she passed a large window that gave a view of the courtyard below. On an impulse, Arya stopped and looked around, hoping to see anyone in the darkened yard.

There were a few people milling around as they either headed to their chambers or to find more ale to continue their drinking. However, Arya was only looking for one. She then craned her neck to look up on the walls, and finally saw Gendry stood there, leaning against the battlements.

Arya immediately raced off to meet him, rushing past several people who greeted her as she passed them. Before long Arya hurried into the courtyard, feeling the cold air rush past her, and the cold, hard ground on her feet, as she ran towards Gendry before he moved again. She came to a skidding halt next to him, panting heavily.

Gendry turned to her and, seeing her tired state, chuckled slightly.

“Well, you haven’t changed,” he said, still laughing.

Arya chuckled too, as her breathing returned to normal.

“It is good to see you again,” Arya said, smiling at him. “ _My lord.”_

Gendry’s eyes widened slightly at her words but his smile widened slightly when he noticed the teasing tone in her voice.

“And you, _my lady,_ ” he replied quietly.

They looked at each other for a moment, still smiling, before Gendry shook his head slightly.

“That is going to take some getting used to. I’ve spent my whole life spitting on highborns, the way they treat people like me. And now I am one of them.”

Arya chuckled again slightly, before patting his arm sympathetically.

“You will get used to it.”

Gendry’s eye fell onto the hand on his arm, before returning them to her face, smirking a little more. Realising that they had been looking at each other for a while now, Arya retracted her hand and averted her eyes to look over the battlements at the dark countryside on the other side.

“What happened to you?” Arya asked, still looking at the dark mass of the Wolfswood in distance. “After the Red Woman took you.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Arya saw Gendry sigh slightly before leaning forward and resting his forearms on the battlements. Turning towards him, Arya could see a concerned look showing on his face, his beard twitching as he started to grind his teeth slightly in thought.

“She took me to Dragonstone,” he said, and Arya could hear a slight tone of anger in his voice. “On the way there she told me the truth about who my father was, on the way to meet my _uncle_.”

There was no mistaking the anger in his voice now, and Arya turned to see that he was now scowling off into the darkness.

“It turns out that Stannis wanted to use me for dark magic. They took my blood and tried to use it to kill Joffrey, Balon Greyjoy and your brother Robb.”

Arya’s eyes widened at this. She had heard and seen some strange things, but there was something about this that set her nerves on edge.

 _Those three names,_ Arya thought, as she ran them over and over in her mind. _Is it a coincidence that they are all dead now?_

“They took your blood?” she said, horrified.

Gendry looked at her for a moment, looking a little awkward, for reasons that Arya couldn’t understand, before looking away again, as if he wasn’t willing to meet her eye.

“Yes, in leeches. They then fed them into a fire, as an offering.”

Arya breathed deeply, trying to comprehend _why_ Stannis would do that, in particular to his own nephew, even if he was a bastard.

“How did you get away?”

“Davos,” Gendry replied simply as he turned to her. “He freed me from my cell, gave me a boat and told me to start sailing. I ended up in King’s Landing and sent most of my time keeping way from the guards.

“That’s why I grew this,” he said, as he scratched his beard. “To keep my identity more secret. But since I got here, it makes me think that it probably wasn’t the best idea, if I look so much like my father.”

“Did no one notice, in King’s Landing?” Arya asked, a little confused.

“None that I know of,” Gendry shrugged. “But then, we didn’t give them much chance. We didn’t stay in one place very often. We were travelling most of the time. And besides, none of the smallfolk in King’s Landing want to help Cersei at all.”

“So, you joined a group of mercenaries? Why?”

“I needed money,” he replied, shrugging again. “And it turns out that I’m not bad at fighting with a warhammer.”

Arya smirked slightly at this, remembering overhearing tales about Robert Baratheon and his fighting days, where he would fight with a giant spiked warhammer.

 _It seems that he takes after his father in more than his looks,_ Arya thought.

“So, that is how you got those scars?”

Gendry ran his hand over his face, almost unconsciously, before nodding and turning to her, giving her a better view.

“Yeah. I got this one fighting the Brotherhood, near the Twins,” he said, as he pointed to the long scar on his cheek.

“The Brotherhood?”

“Yeah. Not like Beric and Thoros. There was this other one, who wore a yellow cloak. We managed to kill most of the men with him, but he and some others managed to get away.”

Arya remembered back to her talks with the Hound, and how he had once mentioned killing a Brotherhood member with a yellow cloak.

 _Well, it seems that the Hound finished the job for Gendry,_ Arya thought, with a small smile.

“What about this one?” Arya asked, as she reached up to touch the scar around his eye.

At her touch, Arya noticed that Gendry closed his eyes briefly. As she lowered her hand, he opened his eyes and raised his own hand to it.

“Bandits, in the Stormlands,” he replied. “A lot of soldiers deserted, and became bandits. We were hired by lords often to deal with them.

“One time, I got separated from the others, and was outnumbered. Rather than kill me outright, they decided that they wanted to have some _fun_. And their version of fun was cutting pieces off of me before killing me.”

Arya’s breath hitched in her throat at this, wondering what it must have been like, staring at men who were planning to mutilating you before dying. Seeing her look of shock, he smiled reassuringly and gripped her forearm gently.

“This was as far as they got, because my friends found us then. And those bandits died a lot faster than they had planned for me.”

“Do you regret leaving them behind?” Arya asked.

“Not really,” he replied, surprising Arya. “They had decided that they would offer their services to Cersei to keep the smallfolk in King’s Landing under control. I couldn’t agree to that.”

“What did they say to that? They can’t have been pleased.”

“I don’t know. Davos found me that night and told me that your brother wanted to speak to me. I decided that I would be safer on the North than in King’s Landing, so I left.”

Arya smiled back at him before she gripped the back of his hand with hers.

“Well, I am glad you decided to come here,” Arya said, causing Gendry to smile back at her.

“What about you?” he asked. “What happened to you?”

“Ha, that is a long story,” Arya said, before sighing deeply. “Not long after the Red Woman took you away, I tried to escape. But I was caught by the Hound, who kept me with him as we travelled north, and he was going to give me to my family at the Twins, in exchange for a reward.”

“That must have been fun,” Gendry said sarcastically.

“He grows on you,” Arya muttered under her breath, although she could tell, from the way that his eyebrows raised and smirk on his face, that Gendry had heard her. “We made it to the Twins just as the Red Wedding was happening.”

As she said it, memories of that night came flooding back into her mind. Grey Wind being shot by multiple crossbows, the screams of the dying men around them, the sight of Robb’s body with Grey Wind’s head attached. Arya clenched her hand into a fist, which shook slightly as anger pounded through her.

However, before her anger could grow any more, Arya felt Gendry reach out and take hold of her wrist, drawing her attention to him. He was looking at her with his concern showing on his face.

“Arya, I’m sorry,” he said quietly, as he looked down solemnly at her.

Arya looked back at him and nodded her thanks. They stayed that way for a while, until Arya’s anger had dissipated. Arya then took a deep breath and continued with her story.

She told Gendry about how they had continued on their way North, reclaiming Needle and killing Polliver, attempting to go to her aunt in the Vale. Gendry listened intently, only making a noise of surprise when Arya told him of the Hound’s defeat at the hands of Brienne. He only interrupted her when she mentioned that she had headed to Braavos.

“You saw Jaqen again?” Gendry questioned, and Arya nodded in response.

“And you trained to become a Faceless assassin?” Arya nodded again.

“Fuck!” Gendry exclaimed, shaking his head in disbelief. “And I thought that my travels were exciting.”

Arya chuckled slightly before continuing her tale. When she reached the end, Arya looked into Gendry’s face, wondering what his reaction would be to her actions at the Twins. He simply stared at her for a moment, his face unreadable which did not help alleviate Arya’s concerns in the slightest.

After a moment, Gendry smiled slightly.

“Remind me to not get on your bad side.”

Arya laughed, more out of relief than from his jest. Almost without thinking, Arya reached out and gripped his arm.

“Thank you,” she said, wanting him to know how much she appreciated that he wasn’t casting her aside after what she had done.

“I’ve missed you,” Gendry admitted, after a moment, meeting her eyes.

Arya’s eyes widened slightly at his admission, smiling widely. Her smile quickly faded when a thought struck her.

“And you will be leaving again soon,” Arya muttered bitterly, a feeling of loss rising up in her. “You, Jon and Sansa. People that I have been away from for so long, and you all have to leave again.”

Arya was surprised a moment later when Gendry reached out and pulled her into his arms. Arya gripped back, feeling his arm around her and his beard tickling against her forehead as he spoke into her hair.

“We will come back,” Gendry whispered reassuringly. “Don’t worry.”

Arya was equally surprised when Gendry pulled his head back slightly and kissed her forehead, before letting go of her. Arya stood there stunned, looking up at his face, as he smiled at the shocked look on her face.

“Good night, Arya,” Gendry whispered, as he placed a hand on her shoulder. “It has been a long journey, and I need some rest.”

Gendry then left the battlements, with Arya watching him leave, feeling both confused by what had just happened and a little disappointed that he was leaving. When Gendry was out of sight, Arya turned back to look at the dark countryside over the battlements, confused thoughts about what had just happened swirling through her head.

Her thoughts were interrupted when she heard the sound of raucous voices carrying to her. Arya lifted herself onto her toes and looked down into Winter Town and saw several fires burning throughout the small settlement, each of them surrounded by many people. Her eyes were drawn to the nearest fire and after a moment she recognised the Hound, when his large form rose from the ground and blocked out the fire from view.

Arya made her way down, wondering if Jon was still there or if he had already retired to his chamber. As she grew closer, she saw that he was still there, sat on a large log alongside Beric Dondarrion. Arya sat down next to Jon, who looked down at her with surprise on his face until he saw the confused look on her face, as her thoughts about Gendry still puzzled her.

Nodding sagely, Jon offered his tankard to her, which she took with a nod of thanks.

After a moment, the Hound returned and seated himself back around the fire.

“Girl,” he growled, nodding to her.

“I see you have met my brother,” Arya said, nodding towards Jon as she took another swig from his tankard before she was going to give it back to him.

“Aye. Another fucker who won’t stay dead.”

Arya was caught by surprise by this and began to laugh, spluttering her mouthful of ale onto the floor in front of them. Beside her, Arya could hear Jon chuckling too.

After a moment, the two of them managed to calm themselves, and Arya handed Jon back his tankard.

“So, what is happening?” she whispered to Jon, leaning in.

“Beric was telling me that the Brotherhood won’t be joining us as we go south,” Jon replied.

“Our fight is to the North,” Beric replied, from Jon’s other side.

“I understand, my lord,” Jon said. “I would have welcomed your aid, but I respect your decision.”

Arya grimaced slightly. She understood their reasons, but she also knew that the Brotherhood would be of help to Jon.

 _One of them in particular,_ Arya thought, as she looked over at the Hound, who was looking uninterested by the conversation.

Struck by an idea, Arya spoke to him.

“I think that you should go with Jon,” Arya said, looking over at the Hound, who looked up at her voice.

“Why is that?”

 Arya leaned forward, smirking slyly.

“Your brother will be there.”

The Hound sat up straighter at her words, a look of realisation on his face as he processed her words. After a moment, a devilish smile crossed his face, the burned side of his face stretching.

“Aye,” he growled, before laughing darkly. “I’ll go. It will give me a chance to finally kill that cunt.”


	29. Tyrion V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys.  
> I know that I am probably starting to sound like a broken record at this point, but I am so sorry for the long wait. It turns out that I have less time than I expected for writing now. I hope that the wait for the next chapter will be shorter, but we will have to see.  
> I am considering setting up a Twitter or tumblr page for this account so I can give you guys more updates on when to expect the chapter, as well as a few other ideas that I have. If that is something that you guys would be interested in, let me know in the comments.  
> Either way, I hope you all enjoy the chapter, and that it was worth the wait.  
> The next chapter will be Daenerys.

 

Tyrion

 

Tyrion sat in the study of the Ashford keep, reading the reports from their scouts and Varys’ birds by the light of the dwindling candle. There was also a goblet of Dornish wine by his hand that was, unusually for him, largely untouched. After a moment, Tyrion sighed deeply and laid the parchment down upon the desk, before turning to look out of the window at the darkening sky.

They had been in Ashford for three days now, resting and resupplying for the next stage of their push northwards towards King’s Landing, awaiting the arrival of the remaining Tyrell forces from Highgarden.

Tyrion knew that the plan then was for the majority of their army to continue north and, once they reached Tumbleton, it would split into two. The bulk of their force would continue on their way to lay siege to the capital. The smaller of the two armies, comprised of around thirty thousand men, under the command of Olymer Tyrell, a distant Tyrell cousin eager to prove himself, would then head west to attack the weakened Westerlands, with the majority of their fighting men being called to the capital by Cersei.

Olymer’s forces would the head down the Gold Road, the most direct way into the Westerlands, and the route that they would be expected to take. Meanwhile, a smaller force would leave Highgarden several days after the main force had left on their way north and would make their way along the Ocean Road. They would then take Crakehall along the way to Lannisport and Casterly Rock, to allow for a flanking manoeuvre to aid Olymer’s forces when they engaged the remaining Lannister men. This smaller force would be comprised, in the most part, of Dornishmen, led by Ser Ryon Allyrion. However, it would also be supported by a small contingent of Tyrell men.

Tyrion walked over to the window and gazed out over the area surrounding the town, which were now covered by tents and stables. He thought back to their march north from Dorne, as they traversed the Prince’s Pass. As they entered the Reach, any conflict was few and far between, with the only skirmishes being with a few bandit gangs.

 _Skirmishes is perhaps a strong word for it,_ Tyrion mused, as he recalled how many of them had simply surrendered at the sight of the writhing mass of Dothraki and the few that had been foolish, or drunk, enough to fight had quickly been dispatched.

However, they had not been without troubles.

Troubles that were once again caused by the Dothraki.

They had passed numerous small villages and hamlets, comprised of mainly farmers, particularly once they had entered the Reach. Once the Dothraki had noticed these villages, their savage nature reared its head again. Many women were raped, and the men killed when they attempted to defend them.

These actions caused tensions to rise within the camp, with many of the Westerosi knights becoming enraged by the sight of their countrymen and women being raped and slaughtered by the Dothraki. Fights had become commonplace among these two factions, with scores of men being killed on both sides and countless more injured.

Tyrion had been speaking often with the various commanders of the Westerosi knights, offering his condolences and understanding for their actions but telling them that he wished for their retaliatory actions to stop. Many had accepted this, if the Dothraki would do the same, but some were more belligerent, with Randyll Tarly being the most vocal among them.

“Why should we curb our actions?” Tarly had growled when Tyrion had asked him to restrain his men. “Surely those Dothraki savages should be brought to heel, to stop them for pillaging through our land and slaughtering our people?”

“And they will be,” Tyrion replied, his patient tone not showing the rising impatience that he was feeling over Tarly’s constant belligerence.

 _Does this man ever relax?_ Tyrion had wondered, as he looked at the man’s ever present scowl.

“But,” Tyrion had continued. “We cannot mount a successful push on Cersei’s forces if our army is too busy fighting each other.”

It had taken Tyrion a while, drinking a lot of wine along the way to dull himself against the man’s constant tirades against the ‘savage Dothraki’, but eventually Tarly had agreed to rein in his men, as long as the Dothraki commanders were similarly restrained.

The Dothraki had been a lot harder to calm.

It didn’t help Tyrion cause that only one of them could speak the Common Tongue, even rudimentarily. Barbarro was also very aggressive in his defence of the Dothraki’s actions, which only made Tyrion’s job harder.

However, after several meetings, where Tyrion would retell him over and over again, in painstaking detail, why they needed unity between the factions. Tyrion could see that the man cared little for any of the reasons that were laid before him, explained so thoroughly that it was as if teaching a child. His agreement was always half-hearted and, while there had been a marked drop in the amount of pillaging from the Dothraki, it would always continue whenever they passed any villages.

Tyrion’s recollections were disturbed by the sounds of shouting drifting up to him. He looked out of the window, down at the mass of soldiers below, and saw that there was a large brawl breaking out. Cursing under his breath, Tyrion could see that the vast majority of the fighters were Dothraki, fighting against and, in some cases, being restrained by, Westerosi knights.

“Gods damn you, Barbarro,” Tyrion growled, as he turned from the window and strode over to the door.

He threw the door open, causing the men standing guard outside to jolt slightly in surprise.

“Summon Barbarro,” Tyrion commanded. “Tell him I demand his presence immediately.”

One of the guards bowed his head in understanding before turning and hurrying away. Tyrion turned and re-entered the room, making his way over to his desk once more to pick up the scout reports once more. He took them over to a large table set in the centre of the room, covered by a large map.

He cast his eyes over it, at the various lion statues that he had placed on its surface to show the known locations of encampments made by Cersei’s forces. Some of them, the larger of them according to the reports, were placed in the most obvious of places, such as in the Kingswood. Others they had been told of through the interrogations of the Lannister soldiers captured at Ashford, most notably the camp they had passed at Tumbleton.

Their scouts had also found several more camps, much smaller and much better hidden. As Tyrion re-read the report, and grasped another lion figure, he reached out and placed it upon the map, nearby to the marker for Crakehall. From the scouts’ report, there was a camp hidden in the forest that was nearby to the castle and Tyrion felt a sense of relief that the scouts had managed to find this one, as well as the few others that were dotted along the Ocean Road. Without this knowledge, their force that would head along the road would be beset by attacks all along the way,

While Tyrion knew that the numbers of these camps were not enough to deal any significant losses to their army, but he knew that being constantly attacked on all sides while they travelled might not do wonders for the morale of the soldiers. Being forewarned of their locations would have the opposite effect, with them all feeling that they had gained an upper hand on the Lannisters.

Tyrion looked at the lion standard and thought of the Lannister that was being kept below him. Tyrion hadn’t yet gone to see his brother, wrestling between his yearn to see Jaime and his uncertainty over how he would be received by him. He had seen the joy and relief on Jaime’s face when they had been reunited but he had also heard him admit his fury with him over his murder of their father.

Before Tyrion could resume his mental tug of war over whether he should go down to see Jaime, the door opened and broke his concentration. He turned to the door and saw a disgruntled Barbarro standing in the door way, looking down at him with poorly disguised anger on his face.

“Thank you,” Tyrion said to the guard, who was standing in the doorway behind Barbarro, giving the Dothraki a distrusting look. “You may leave us now.”

The guard nodded before backing out and snapping the door closed behind him. Barbarro scowled over at him for a moment longer before walking over to the desk.

“What you want dwarf?” Barbarro grunted in his stunted tongue.

“You know what I want,” Tyrion growled, pointing to the window.

Barbarro turned and looked out of the window and Tyrion could tell, from the muffled yells that he could still hear, that the brawl was still going on down below.

“You say this already,” Barbarro said, his look of disinterest returning to his face.

“And I will continue to do so until you listen and prove that you can actually lead these men.”

These harsh words broke through the bored attitude that the Dothraki showed whenever in this room. He immediately turned to Tyrion and glared over at him, his anger clear on his face. Tyrion saw the man’s hand flex towards his _arakh_ , an almost unconscious movement. His hand didn’t make contact with the hilt of his weapon before he retracted it, and clenched his hand into a fist.

While the man clearly knew that to draw his weapon on Tyrion was a poor idea, Tyrion still felt a rush of apprehension and dread and wondered if he had gone too far.

Barbarro stood staring at him for several long moments, breathing deeply, before he audibly exhaled deeply before setting his jaw into a stony mask. Tyrion knew from this that the man would listen to him, albeit grudgingly. Feeling a sense of relief, Tyrion continued.

“Your men have continued to rape and pillage as we have marched, when I have told you to stop,” Tyrion said, a bite of anger in his voice now.

“I not obey you, dwarf,” Barbarro grunted.

“Here you do,” Tyrion reminded him. “I am the Hand of the Queen, and I act with Queen Daenerys’ authority. As I am sure that she told you before you left. So, any order from me, should be taken as though it came from her.”

At the mention of her name, Barbarro stiffened slightly and Tyrion, despite knowing that Barbarro had likely not paid much attention to what he said after it, had to fight back a smirk from crossing his face.

“What do you think the Queen would think about your actions?”

Tyrion’s words were met by a look of concern flitting across the Dothraki’s’ face for a moment and Tyrion knew that, despite his bravado and his attitude of indifference, the idea of displeasing Daenerys was not something that he wanted, especially after her fury with him because of his actions at the Battle of Dragonstone.

Pressing the advantage, Tyrion continued as he made his way towards his desk.

“I doubt that Her Grace would take kindly to the actions that you have taken against the very people that she is trying to liberate.”

“It is what Dothraki do,” Barbarro said, surprising Tyrion slightly with his continued defiance.

“Not anymore,” Tyrion responded firmly, as he took his seat behind his desk and addressed the man’s back. “Not since you swore yourselves to Queen Daenerys.”

Barbarro swung round to face Tyrion, who could see the anger burning in the man’s eyes. Tyrion, however, merely stared back at him calmly.

“This is the last time that I shall warn you,” Tyrion warned. “Bring your men under control. Because if you don’t, I doubt that Her Grace will be as forgiving and be as willing to give you as many chances as I have.”

Barbarro stood still for a moment, continuing to glare down at Tyrion, before he nodded his assent jerkily before turning and storming from the room, slamming the door behind him.

Tyrion sighed deeply and reached out for his wine goblet draining half of it immediately. Savouring the taste for a moment, Tyron fervently hoped that this would be the last time that he would have to repeat himself to the Dothraki commander.

Tyrion’s eyes fell onto the stack of parchment lying on his desk and he felt his stomach sink at the thought of working his way through the correspondences on his desk, half of them he guessed would be either complaints or ‘advise’ from people like Randyll Tarly on how to handle the disparate factions that were at his command.

Luckily for Tyrion, there was a knock at the door before he had the chance to begin to look through them.

“Enter,” Tyrion called out, as he placed his goblet back on the wooden surface of the desk.

The door swung open and Varys entered the room, his hands hidden in the sleeves of his tunic as usual. The guards closed the door behind him as he made his way over to the desk and seated himself opposite Tyrion.

“Good evening, Lord Tyrion,” Varys said, in his calm, silky voice, bowing his head respectfully.

“Lord Varys,” Tyrion said, pouring the man a goblet of wine, despite knowing that he would be very unlikely to touch a drop of it. “What brings you here?”

“I came to let you know that I have sent a message to Queen Daenerys, through my birds,” Varys replied, ignoring the wine in front of him as Tyrion had expected. “To inform her of your brother’s surrender and capture.”

At the mention of Jaime, Tyrion’s mind was once again swamped by his indecision over going to see him. Varys could clearly see the conflict on his face, from the wry smirk that appeared over his face, but he tactfully didn’t comment on it, preferring to rise from his seat to wander over to the map.

“It would seem that your sister is spreading her forces around, hoping to catch us by surprise,” Varys said, examining the map face, dotted with various lion figures.

Tyrion lowered himself from his chair and made his way over to join his friend at the table. He looked at the various lion figures, dotted in various locations across the Stormlands.

“I doubt that it was her idea,” Tyrion muttered darkly. “My sister is not known for her intelligence.”

Varys chuckled slightly, clearly used to his muttered insults towards his sister.

In the silence that followed, Tyrion’s eyes drifted to the part of the map that showed the North. Near to the image of Winterfell were two figures. One was a crowned wolf and the other a crowned three-headed dragon, representing Jon and Daenerys respectfully.

 _I wonder if they have managed to rally the Northern houses yet,_ Tyrion wondered, before looking down at the various Lannister encampments throughout the northern parts of the Stormlands that were awaiting them on their march south. _It looks like they will need them._

“Well,” said Varys suddenly, breaking Tyrion’s concentration. “It seems that we are lucky that we have imprisoned one of Cersei’s better commanders.”

Tyrion sighed, with Varys’ meaning almost transparently obvious. He turned to meet the man’s eye, who was looking down at him with a knowing smirk on his face, confirming Tyrion’s suspicions.

Varys nodded slightly, pleased that his words seemed to have an effect, before he bowed slightly to Tyrion.

“Well, my friend, it is getting late,” he said calmly. “And it would seem like you have much still to do.”

As he said this, he nodded back towards the desk, where the pile of reports and correspondences was still sat. Varys then turned and left the room, leaving Tyrion alone with his thoughts.

As he heard the door close, Tyrion looked back at the table and took a Lannister lion in his hand. His thoughts wandered once more to his brother, incarcerated below his feet. He felt a rush of guilt that he hadn’t gone to see his brother, despite knowing that he was being imprisoned once more so soon after being held in the Black Cells for weeks.

Tyrion set the figure down, along with his wine goblet, before deciding to retire for the night, resolving to speak with his brother the following day.

*

The following day, after finishing up some of the jobs that he had left from the night before, Tyrion left the study and began to make his way down to the dungeons. On his way down, after being struck by a sudden thought, he redirected himself towards the kitchens, where he instructed the cooks to prepare Jaime a meal fit for the Queen herself. Tyrion was all too aware that the rations that he and the other prisoners had been fed were incredibly poor compared to the soldiers.

While he was there, Tyrion also took a skin of wine with him, wanting to share it with his brother while they caught up and told each other their stories. As he walked down further through the keep towards the dungeons, Tyrion’s thoughts began to rage through his head, wondering how Jaime would receive him. Tyrion had seen the two emotions that his brother was surely feeling toward him when they had seen each other a few days before, relief at seeing him one more and his continue anger over his actions on his escape from King’s Landing.

As he descended the stone steps into the dungeons, his footsteps reverberating around him, Tyrion felt his heart sink slightly when he saw the man that was guarding to door to the cells.

A man with armour emblazoned with the sigil of House Martell.

Despite knowing that the man was unlikely to do much to him, with him being the Hand to Daenerys, Tyrion knew that Jaime, a prisoner, an enemy, would not be afforded the same level of respect.

As he came to a stop in front of the guard, Tyrion raised his eyes to the man’s face, and felt his stomach sink even further. The man’s eyes were narrowed down at him, with his eyes burning with anger, his hatred clear by the look on his face.

“I want to see my brother,” Tyrion said calmly, trying to not let his discomfort over the intensity of the man’s contempt for him show.

The guard simply looked at him for a moment, his expression growing ever darker, before he answered.

“No.”

Tyrion merely looked back at him for a moment, shocked by the man’s reply.

“No?” he said incredulously. “What do you mean no?”

The man’s scowl merely grew.

“I obey the leaders of the House Martell of Dorne,” he spat, leaning forward slightly, moving his spear into more of an offensive stance. “Not Lannister child-killing scum.”

Ordinarily, Tyrion would have allowed the slight against his family name to go past unchallenged. However, after his recent discovery of the fate of his niece, the insult merely had the effect of making his blood boil.

“ _We’re_ child-killers?” Tyrion growled, taking a step towards the man, despite the man’s height advantage and the weapon that he was wielding. “What of Princess Myrcella? She died in Dorne. Under _very_ suspicious circumstances.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Tyrion knew that he had overstepped the mark.

The man’s eyes immediately narrowed into slits, and he took a step towards Tyrion, lowering his spear even further into an attacking stance. Tyrion, all thoughts about his safety due to the pin on his chest forgotten, backed away slightly, cursing his lack of care of his words.

Just as the man looked like he was about to step forward again, a voice called down from the steps behind Tyrion.

“Soldier! Enough!”

The guard looked up and, seeing whoever was standing on the stairs, immediately straightened up and retook his position. Stunned by the sudden retreat, Tyrion turned to see who had appeared to have saved him.

Nymeria Martell was walking down the stairs toward him.

Tyrion looked up at her with interest and confusion, wondering why a Martell would go out of their way to save him, with their hatred for his family well known throughout the kingdoms.

“It seems like I owe you my thanks, Lady Nymeria,” Tyrion said, making sure that his tone conveyed his confusion and distrust over her action and his anger and contempt towards her and her sisters.

Nymeria, either not noticing his tone or deigning to not saying anything, merely raised her eyebrows in confirmation of his words. She came to a halt next to Tyrion and looked down at him for a moment, her dark eyes curious and suspicious. After a moment, she turned to the guard.

“Check that the prisoners are secure,” she said commandingly, causing the man to bow his head immediately and enter the door, leaving them alone.

There was an uneasy silence between them for a moment, and Tyrion knew that both of them were considering the uneasy history between their families. Finally, Nymeria broke the silence.

“What do you want, Lord Tyrion?” she asked.

“I wish to see my brother,” Tyrion replied incredulously. “Why else would I be down here?”

Nymeria raised her eyebrows again at his words, his biting tone clearly having an effect. However, Tyrion didn’t care much. After hearing about the death of Myrcella, despite his decision to keep his plans for revenge quiet for the time being, he found it incredibly difficult.

“I was merely attempting to be cordial with you, Lord Tyrion,” she said, and Tyrion could hear a note of anger behind her voice. “My father taught me to respect those who deserve it.”

“Did he also teach you to kill his brother so you could take his place?” Tyrion whispered vehemently, leaning forward slightly, a devious smirk spreading across his lips.

Tyrion knew that his anger was making him reckless, and that it would only take a word from Nymeria for the guard to return and finish the job that she prevented him from doing moments before. But Tyrion also knew that he couldn’t have stopped the words if he had wanted to as all he could see and think of was his niece, the kind and naïve girl who have been caught up in a family feud.

To Tyrion’s surprise however, Nymeria’s face didn’t contort in anger at his words, she didn’t call out for the guard to return and place his spear through his gut.

A look that looked very similar to guilt and shame flashed across her face.

Tyrion looked on in shock as he looked down at the floor, swallowing hard. He was completely taken aback by this display of guilt, as he had assumed that all of the Martell sisters had been equally complicit in the crimes.

“No” she said finally, her voice thick with the guilt that was clear on her face. “No, he did not.”

She then looked up at Tyrion and met his eye.

“He would be ashamed of what we have done.”

Silence fell between them again for a moment, and Tyrion couldn’t even begin to think of anything to say in response to this declaration.

“At the time, it seemed like the right thing to do. We wanted to avenge our father, avenge his death at the hands of the Lannisters. Our Uncle Doran was doing nothing, merely sitting by and doing nothing in response. And Myrcella was… she was the only Lannister that was within reach.”

“She did _nothing_ to you,” Tyrion snarled.

“I know,” she replied, nodding. “The more that I have thought on our actions that day, the more I am disgusted by them, as I know that our father would have been if he had lived.

“Just know, Lord Tyrion,” she continued, raising herself up to her full height, “that not all of the Martells think that we did the right thing that day.”

Tyrion stood staring at her for a moment, unable to believe his ears. While Tyrion had already seen that Nymeria was the least hostile of the Sand Snakes, at least openly, he had never assumed that she would harbour such regrets and doubts over the course of actions that she and her sisters had taken with their father’s lover.

 _Given the entitlement that the others have shown, I assumed that she would be the same,_ Tyrion thought, still stunned. _It seems that this was a mistake._

“Guard!” she called out, breaking through Tyrion’s thoughts.

After a moment, the door opened once more and the guard returned, immediately looking towards Tyrion suspiciously, as if anticipating treachery.

“Let Lord Tyrion see his brother,” Nymeria commanded, with such detachment that it was as if the conversation of the last few minutes had never happened. “Whenever he wishes.”

Nymeria returned her gaze back to Tyrion for a moment, who nodded his thanks to her, still a little taken aback by their discussion to speak much.

“And, do not raise your weapon to him again,” she continued, looking back to the guard. “We may despise the Lannisters in Dorne, but we are on the same side as the dwarf now. Cersei is the main goal.”

And with that, she turned and headed up the stairs, without looking back once. Tyrion watched her go with a smirk spreading across his face, marvelling at her ability to play the part, acting as people expected her to despite her own reservations.

As he lost sight of her at the top of the stairs, Tyrion wondered if he had just gained an ally from within House Martell.

However, Tyrion didn’t have too long to think more on it, as he turned and entered the cells. There was a thick matt of darkness that covered the rooms, broken only the various flickering torches burning here and there along the walls.

As he passed by the doors, Tyrion saw movement out of the corner of his eye, as those incarcerated within would come to see who had come this time. As they started to recognise him, they began to hiss and whisper insults at him.

“Traitor!”

“Kinslayer!”

“Fucking Imp!”

Tyrion merely sighed and continued on his way, ignoring the anger growls that surrounded him, flanked by the Martell guard, who did nothing to quiet his charges. Before long he came to the largest cell in the dungeons, one that he had ensured would be occupied by Jaime, and Jaime alone.

When they reached the door, the guard unlocked it and stepped to one side, jerking his head towards it impatiently, clearly still annoyed at having to be ordered to do this.

Steeling himself, Tyrion grasped a torch firmly in his hand and pushed the door open. The light flooded into the chamber, illuminating its stark walls and floors, despite its spaciousness, at least compared to the others. After a moment, Tyrion saw movement from the wooden bunk set against the far wall.

As Tyrion placed the torch into a sconce on the wall, Jaime rose from his bunk, his slightly grimy face shown by the flickering light. When his eyes fell upon Tyrion, a small smile crossed his face.

“Hello, brother,” he muttered, and Tyrion was relieved to hear more happiness than anger in his voice.

In response, Tyrion raised the wine skin so Jaime could see.

“I brought something,” Tyrion said, smiling broadly as he began to walk over.

Jaime matched his grin as he reached down and moved a small stool over to near the bunk. As Tyrion seated himself upon the stool and uncorked the skin, Jaime perched himself on the edge of his bunk. Tyrion immediately handed the wine over to his brother, who took it with a grateful nod and took a greedy swig. After a moment, he sighed and passed the wine back.

“Trust you to get the best wine in the place, Tyrion,” Jaime laughed, leaning back slightly.

Chuckling slightly, Tyrion raised the skin to his lips.

“There is food coming for you,” Tyrion said, as he passed the wine back over. “Good food, not the crap that they have been giving you.”

Jaime gave an appreciative grunt as he swigged from the skin once more.

For the next hour or so, they simply talked. Thy told each other all that they had seen and done since their farewell in the tunnels beneath the Red Keep.

Tyrion listened intently to Jaime’s tales, in particular when he spoke of his voyage to Dorne to help Myrcella, of their fights with Dornishmen and the skirmish in the Water Gardens with the Sand Snakes. Jaime was just saying how they began on their journey back to King’s Landing when he stopped abruptly, his anger showing on his face once more, and Tyrion knew that he did not wish of speak of Myrcella’s death, his daughter’s death.

Tyrion waited for Jaime’s mute rage to subside, and before long he resumed his tale, telling of how he returned to King’s Landing to hear of Cersei’s Walk of Atonement and the rise in power of the High Sparrow, before leaving north to break the siege of Riverrun.

Tyrion had heard about the destruction of the sept and the death of all those within, but it was different hearing it from Jaime’s perspective, of how he had come home from his ‘victory’ at Riverrun to find a smoking crater on Visenya’s Hill, of how he had slowly pieced together what had happened to realise Cersei’s guilt.

“Is it as bad in the capital as they say?” Tyrion asked.

“Worse,” Jaime replied darkly, looking into his eyes. “She is…”

Jaime paused for a moment, looking off into nothingness.

“She is losing her mind, Tyrion.”

Tyrion knew his brother well enough to the see the conflict on his face and that knew that, whether Jaime realised or accepted it, there would always be a part of his brother that saw Cersei as his sister, rather than the tyrant that she had become, and would love her as such. However, at the same time, Tyrion could also see the anger and hatred on his face and in his voice whenever he spoke of the horrific acts that she had taken during her short reign.

While Tyrion knew that he too should have a similar feeling of conflict borne of his own deep-seated care for Cersei, he simply couldn’t bring himself to. With the outspoken and often vitriolic contempt that Cersei had sent his way since their childhood, Tyrion couldn’t find it within him to care what happened to her, even a little. A feeling that had only been exacerbated when he had learnt of her attempts to have him hunted down and killed upon his escape from King’s Landing and her callous murder of their kin in order to have her revenge upon the High Sparrow and the Tyrells.

Seeing that the look of conflict on Jaime’s face was not leaving him anytime soon, Tyrion sought to provide his brother some respite from his clearly confusing thoughts. The food arrived soon after and, while they both devoured the various platters of food, all cooked to perfection, Tyrion launched into a description of his travels from the moment that he had left King’s Landing and up to present, from his travels with Varys and his abduction by Jorah Mormont, to their ill-fated trek though the ruins of Old Valyria and being sold as slaves to fight in the arena for Daenerys Targaryen.

Jaime listened with rapt attention to Tyrion’s story, with a look of almost dumfounded amazement, which only grew more pronounced when Tyrion told him of the dragons, of seeing Drogon’s arrival at Daznak’s Pit and his bonding with them below the Great Pyramid of Meereen, Viserion in particular.

When Tyrion finished his tale, the brothers sat in silence for a moment, drinking from the skin, while Tyrion mustered up the courage to ask the question that had been troubling him.

“I thought that you would be angrier with me,” Tyrion confessed suddenly, breaking the silence. “After what I did when I escaped.”

Jaime stiffened suddenly, the wine skin halfway to his lips. After a moment, he slowly lowered it, shifting his gaze to Tyrion, who was a little concerned to see anger behind his brother’s eyes.

“I was,” Jaime replied, and Tyrion could hear the conflict in his voice. “I _am._ You killed our father, Tyrion, what were you expecting?”

Tyrion nodded his understanding, inwardly cursing himself for bringing it up.

“But,” Jaime continued, causing Tyrion to look up at his brother’s face. “After what has happened with Cersei, I understand _why_ you did it. I still don’t like it, but I understand why.

“Because I know now how it feels to wish for the death of a family member,” Jaime growled, and Tyrion could tell that this anger was not directed at him.

Tyrion stayed silent for a moment, allowing Jaime the time to collect his thoughts.

“While I was in the Black Cells, I had a lot of time to think,” Jaime explained, looking into Tyrion’s eyes with a determined look on his face. “Mainly I thought of all that Cersei had been doing, and I decided that I would _have_ to kill her, for the good of everyone. And that helped me to understand your actions against our father, because I am feeling the same rage against our family.”

Tyrion nodded slightly, grateful for his understanding, even if there would always be anger behind it.

“I also thought of what happened when we were young, the hate that Father and Cersei had for you,” Jaime continued, his face and tone much more sympathetic. “And I need to apologise to you.”

“For what?” Tyrion asked, feeling completely lost.

“For not trying to stop them,” Jaime said. “I made a few feeble attempts to stand up for you against them, but not nearly enough. In the end, I simply sat back and let it happen, because I was too self-involved, and too interested in Cersei, to do anything more.

“I’m sorry, little brother.”

Tyrion looked at Jaime for a moment, a little shocked by his brother’s confession, especially when Tyrion didn’t think that he had anything to apologise for.

 _Nothing that he said could have stopped Father and Cersei_ , Tyrion knew. _But I imagine being alone with these thoughts in the Black Cells for so long, made it easier to just blame himself for them._

“Well,” Tyrion began, as he passed over the new wine skin that had been brought in with the food. “If you can forgive me for killing our father, I can forgive you for something that I have never blamed you for.”

Jaime nodded his thanks as he took the skin, and Tyrion could see the relief on his face. Even if he still wasn’t sure that Jaime had done anything wrong, Tyrion was glad that he had alleviated some of his brother’s guilt.

After a moment, Tyrion saw Jaime’s face darken once more.

“Tyrion, there is something that you need to know,” he said, lowering his voice slightly. “About the Martells…”

“I know, Jaime,” Tyrion responded quickly, lowering his voice as well. “Varys told me about Myrcella.”

Jaime’s initially confused expression changed immediately into one of almost murderous intent. Tyrion, sensing danger, moved immediately to act.

“Jaime, I know you want vengeance,” Tyrion murmured, lowering his voice ever further so the guard outside couldn’t hear. “So do I, but we cannot act yet. The Martells are allies of Daenerys, and if we moved against them it would impair the war effort.”

“So, we do nothing?” Jaime demanded, looking mutinous.

“For _now_ ,” Tyrion whispered conspiratorially. “But I promise you, we will have our revenge when the time is right.”

As he said this, Tyrion thought of Nymeria’s words, and wondered how he could take advantage of the seeming invisible rift between the Sand Snakes.


	30. Daenerys V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you are everyone, I hope you enjoy the chapter.  
> I couldn't decide between twitter and tumblr so I decided to get both. I will be posting updates on when to expect the chapters, as well a few other things, so feel free to follow me on there to keep up to date. Feel free to ask questions too and I will answer them when I can, and if there is anything that you guys want to see on them, I am open to suggestions. They are gotarcher94.tumblr.com and twitter.com/GotArcher94.  
> The next chapter will be Sansa.

 

Daenerys

Daenerys stood in the courtyard of Winterfell, with Grey Worm and Missandei standing on one side of her, and Jorah on the other. While it wasn’t snowing yet, a bitter wind was blowing over the high walls of the keep. It felt harsh on Dany’s skin and she huddled herself deeper into the thick fur cloak that she had fastened tightly around her shoulders.

While she had gotten more used to the cold, for the most part, there were days like today where it shocked Dany just how cold it could actually get in the North. She had mentioned it to Jon earlier and, despite the obvious tension in his attitude about the execution later that morning, he had broken into a smile.

“Winter has only just begun,” he had said, turning his grey eyes towards her. “It is going to get a lot colder up here.”

_Colder than this?_ Dany thought, huddling her cloak even tighter around her as the chill wind whipped around her once more, biting into her exposed flesh.

As a way to distract her mind from the chill, Dany cast her eyes around the courtyard at the assembled people. Every Northern lord was standing the courtyard, with countless standards rippling the breeze, adding various different colours to the drab stone of the courtyard.

Dany, Missandei and Grey Worm were standing with the Stark siblings, who were all wearing thick cloaks of dark grey material, with their collar’s encircled by pure white fur. Dany had smiled when she had seen the three of them, realising instantly that they were all drabbed in the colours of their house.

Dany’s eyes then move to look at the small elevated platform that had been raised overnight in the centre of the courtyard. Jon stood upon it alone, his sword resting point resting his hands upon the pommel of Longclaw, clearly deep in thought. As her eyes lingered on him, Jon never stirred, with the only movement being his long dark cloak billowing around him.

The courtyard was quiet which was only broken occasionally by muttered conversations from the assembled crowd as they attempted to break the tension that hung over them all like a cloud. Dany looked over and saw that while Bran was looking out over the lords, his eyes darting from standard to standard, Sansa and Arya were looking over at the door that led to the dungeons, wearing identical looks of determination.

Dany joined their vigil without thinking and, after a few moments, the door finally opened. Littlefinger was being marched forward, with a burly guardsman holding each arm and practically dragging the reluctant man forward. At the sight of the man, the Northern lords began to hiss and jeer at him, their scorn and hatred evident. Out of the corner of her eye, Dany saw Jon move for the first time, turning his head to watch the man’s approach.

As Littlefinger was pulled closer towards the platform, Dany got a better look at the man. While he had only been imprisoned for a matter of days, she could see that he already looked haggard and frantic, his small, beady eyes darting around in his pale face, looking at all of the people jeering towards him.

When he reached the steps to the platform and the men began to haul him up them, Littlefinger stumbled slightly and fell forward, hitting his face hard on the wooden steps, causing an outbreak of laughter at his misfortune. Looking to her left, Dany saw that the Stark sisters, while not openly laughing, were both smirking slightly at Littlefinger’s misfortune.

Dany, while not holding any opinion of the man other than what she had been told since she arrived, did not share their happiness over his public humiliation. A feeling that seemed to be shared by Jon, who was looking down at Littlefinger with an expression of pity mixing with his distaste for the man.

When Littlefinger got back to his feet, his face was dripping with blood, and Dany felt a small stab of pity for the man, which was dulled slightly when all of his crimes came flooding back into her mind.

Littlefinger finally reached the platform and stood in front of Jon, who nodded his head towards the guardsmen, who both bowed slightly and retreated back a few paces, close enough to intervene should they need to but far enough away to allow Jon to handle this himself.

Jon took a step towards Littlefinger and gestured towards the block that was set up in the centre of the platform. Littlefinger looked towards it briefly before turning back to Jon, his mouth moving furiously as if making a last-minute plea for clemency.

Jon was unmoved.

Dany saw the man’s head lower in sorrow as he turned and made his way to the block as instructed. As the man knelt over it, Jon stood in front of him. He grasped hold of Longclaw’s hilt with both hands, the point facing down to the floor.

“Lord Petyr Baelish,” Jon said, his loud voice carrying over the courtyard, silencing any remaining taunts being directed towards Baelish. “You have confessed to treason in front of the Northern lords.

“I, Jon Snow, the King in the North, sentence you to death. If you have any final words, my lord, now is the time.”

The hush that had fallen over the assembled lords now had an air of expectation, as they waited for Baelish to speak. While Dany was initially confused as to why they would allow him to say anything to the crowd, she quickly realised that this was a part of the ‘Old Way’ that Jon had mentioned to her before, the teachings of the man that Jon regarded as his father.

Dany watched as Littlefinger raised himself up onto his knees slightly, before looking around at them all with a defiant expression on his face.

“This man is no king of mine!” Littlefinger roared to the crowd, who responded in kind, with cries of outrage at his continued insults echoing around the keep.

Littlefinger, however, fuelled by some hidden resolve that he had not had previously, seemed undaunted by the sight of dozens of Northerners baying at him. He merely looked over at Jon briefly, sneering slightly, before he returned to address the crowd.

“And he is not yours either!”

Dany stiffened slightly at these words and, after sharing a horrified look with the Stark siblings, knew that they were all thinking the same thing.

Littlefinger was about to reveal the truth about Jon’s parentage to the Northerners.

As she could see Sansa and Arya whispered to each other out of the corner of her eye, Dany looked around the crowd frantically, while at the same time furiously trying to think of a way for Littlefinger to not say another word. However, Dany also knew that she couldn’t say too much, as her position in the North, while considerably improved since she had arrived, was too precarious for her to intervene in something like this.

Before Dany could think of anything else, Littlefinger raised himself up even further, so he was practically back on his feet. The guardsmen that had dragged him here from his cell moved forward at this, ready to force him back to the ground. The man didn’t seem to care however, and Dany felt a sinking feeling in her stomach at the sight of the man’s smug look of victory.

“Jon Snow is not-”

This was as far as he got before his mouth exploded with blood. There was a roar of collective surprise at this new development. Dany felt Jorah instinctively place himself in front of her, grasping the hilt of his blade. Dany however was not thinking of her own safety, as she craned her neck around him to see what had happened.

Littlefinger had slumped down onto his knees, clutching at his bleeding mouth. Dany looked around the man and her eyes fell onto a large stone, roughly about the size of a child’s clenched fist. Knowing that this was the reason for the man’s injury, Dany then cast her eyes around for the thrower, although this question was answered very quickly.

“Keep your traitor mouth shut, you snake!” Arya bellowed from beside Dany, drawing all eyes to her. “Jon is our king, and _nothing_ you do is going to change that.”

While there was a lot of muttered approval of her words, Dany could see that many of them were looking at Arya with disapproval, which she guessed were in response to her actions.

“Arya! Enough!” Jon called, and Dany could hear the surprise and anger in his voice.

Dany looked over at Arya and saw that she was not responded to either Jon’s words or the looks of disapproval from the Northern lords. She was merely glaring over at Littlefinger, with her rage not disguised in the slightest. Dany saw that Littlefinger had looked over at the young Stark and the smug look on his face had vanished in the face of her message.

As Dany watched, Littlefinger merely stared dumbly back at Arya and, after seeming to get the message, gave an almost imperceptible nod before bowing his head in defeat.

Dany smiled as she too realised the message that Arya was sending to him.

_Do not speak of Jon’s parentage, or face the consequences._

After a moment, the situation calmed slightly, with the lords averting their gaze from Arya to the platform. In the lull, Dany turned to the Stark sisters and saw them share a look of triumph and Dany smiled broadly, realising that the two of them must have planned Arya’s sudden outburst.

Sansa caught Dany’s eye and moved over to her. Sansa kept her eyes front to not draw any more attention to them, before addressing Dany.

“Very few will question it,” Sansa said quietly, not bothering with any pretence over what they were speaking of. “Arya is known for being a little … _wild_ , so no one will doubt that she would do such a thing against someone who had plotted against Jon.”

“Very smart, Lady Sansa,” said Dany, allowing a small smirk to cross her face as she watched the crowd begin to focus solely on the platform once more as the guards began to move away from the block now that Littlefinger was back there. “Jon is lucky to have you all at his side.”

Out of the corner of eye, Dany saw Sansa flash her a grateful and proud smile at receiving such praise. Dany didn’t have time to return it, as Jon’s voice carried over the courtyard once more.

“Nobody is to interfere,” he said loudly, as he turned to look specifically at Arya. “ _Nobody._ ”

Dany saw Arya merely shrug in response, showing neither regret nor remorse for her actions. Jon gave an exasperated shake of his head before he turned back to Littlefinger.

“Now that there will be no more disruptions, my lord,” Jon said. “Do you have any final words?”

Dany felt her breath catch in her chest as she watched these events unfold.

_What is he doing?_ Dany wondered, as he hands curled into fists, her nails biting into the skin of palms. _Littlefinger nearly just exposed him and Jon is giving him the chance to do so again._

However, as soon as the thought entered her head, Dany understood his reasoning. He believed that Littlefinger, regardless of his crimes, was entitled to having his last words heard, the same as any other man, even in light of what he could reveal. While Jon’s strong set of beliefs, and his resolute determination in following them, was something that Dany admired about him, she wished that in this situation he would show a little more pragmatism and execute Littlefinger quickly.

However, after a tense moment, Littlefinger merely shook his head slightly and said a few words, for only Jon to hear.

However quiet the spoken words were, they clearly had an effect on Jon, who visibly stiffened.

Littlefinger leaned forward over the block, so that his neck was exposed for Jon’s blade. Jon readjusted his grip on Longclaw and raised it slightly, ready to swing. He paused for a moment, a moment that seemed to last hours in the tense atmosphere.

Then he swung his sword.

With a flash of the silver blade, Petyr Baelish’s head was parted from his head and rolled across the platform. Dany heard both Sansa and Arya let out small laughs, which sounded like more from relief that he could no longer plot against them than mirth at the sight of his death. There was a collective wave of approved mutterings from the assembled lords, the vast majority of whom clearly approved of Jon’s actions.

Dany then looked over to Jon and saw him looking down at Baelish’s corpse with a stony look on his face. Without saying anything, Jon passed his sword behind him to a squire before turning his back on the body and walking down from the platform. Jon immediately made his way over to where Dany and his siblings were standing, with the crowd parting obediently to allow him to pass.

When reached them, Dany gave him a small, reassuringly smile, which he returned half-heartedly. Jon then turned towards Arya and nodded towards her, his smile widening slightly.

“Thank you, Arya,” he said quietly.

His words were greeted by a blanket of stunned silence from them all, with Dany sharing a stunned look with Sansa. Jon gave a brief chuckle in response.

“I am not _that_ oblivious,” he said, looking between them. “I know what he was about to say, and that you stopped it.”

“Then why did you give him the chance?” Arya asked, looking confused.

Jon looked at her for a moment, before responding.

“Because that is not what Father taught us,” Jon said quietly, and Dany could see the siblings all nod their understanding at his words. “Regardless of his crimes, he deserves to have his last words heard by the man who had condemned him to death.

“But I can also see that letting Littlefinger speak could have endangered everything that we have. But if I had stopped him, it would only have caused more questions among the lords, as to why I turned from our traditions in his case. Many would ask if I _did_ have something to hide from them.”

Dany nodded slightly, realising the reasoning behind his words, with Arya and Sansa too nodding their approval.

“Smart decision, Jon,” Bran said. “I’m sure Father would have done something similar. Keeping face with the Northern lords is important, if we are to have the army we need in the wars to come.”

Dany noticed the plural and was pleased that Bran seemed to be including her fight to regain the throne in that. While Jon had promised her the armies of the North in her march south, his siblings had not, so the fact that they too seemed to be behind her as well was pleasing for her.

Struck by a sudden curiosity, Dany turned to Jon.

“What _were_ Littlefinger’s last words?” Dany asked inquisitively. “You were the only one to hear them.”

Jon turned to look at her and his brow furrowed slightly in concern.

“He said ‘Take my life then, Jaehaerys Targaryen.’”

While everyone present knew that Littlefinger had knowledge of Jon’s true parentage, these words still hushed them into a stunned silence, which was only broken by the arrival of an anxious-looking messenger.

“My King,” he said when he came to a halt, bowing at the sight of Jon. “Robert Stone, Littlefinger’s messenger, has been apprehended as he tried to sneak into Winterfell during Baelish’s execution.”

The silence between them immediately became one of excitement, and Dany was sure that she was sure of the reason. While she didn’t know everything about it, she knew that Jon and his siblings were anticipating the arrival to Winterfell of a document that had come into Baelish’s possession.

And it hadn’t arrival… until now.

Or so it seemed.

Jon immediately turned and ushered the messenger onwards, to lead him to Littlefinger’s man. Sansa and the other Stark siblings fell into step behind him, with Bran having to wait after beckoning forth several guardsmen who had been out of earshot of their conversation. Dany, without thinking, followed after them, her curiosity getting the best of her.

Dany kept pace with Sansa and Arya, a few steps behind Jon, who was forging the pace ahead of them as he hurried onwards. After a moment, Dany realised that they were heading for the livings quarters, where the majority of the visitors to Winterfell were being housed, including Baelish and his entourage.

They continued to walk for a few more minutes before coming to a halt in front of a large, dark wood door. The messenger who had brought the news opened the door and stood aside to allow Jon to enter, with Dany and Sansa following close behind.

Being so close behind Jon, Dany was able to see the impact that his presence had on the young man. Robert Stone had been sat upright on his bed, to which he was shackled but, upon seeing Jon, the colour drained from the man’s face and he stiffened. Dany smiled slightly at this, realising that, while Jon didn’t desire to become a king, he had the commanding presence that was necessary in a ruler.

“Your Grace,” Stone said, trying to sound confident, his eyes darting between Jon and Dany.

Dany watched as Jon merely stared back the man for a moment before turning to the Stark man who was standing guard in the corner of the room.

“Was this man searched?” Jon asked.

“Yes, my King,” the man replied, pointing towards a small satchel which was residing on the desk beneath the window. “Everything on his person has been placed into the satchel. But, as Lady Sansa commanded, we haven’t read any of the letters or correspondences in his possession, as she said you would prefer to handle everything dealing with Lord Baelish and his treason personally.”

Dany watched Jon turned his head to his sister and flash her a grateful smile, which she returned with a nod of her head. Seeing once more the sense of companionship and devotion that the Stark siblings had for each other gave Dany a rush of mixed feelings.

While she was happy for the Starks, that they constantly had each other to rely on and to confide in, no matter what, she also felt regret that she was denied the same opportunity and a strong yearning to experience what they had.

Dany’s thoughts were interrupted as Jon took a step forward, towards Robert Stone.

“Leave us,” Jon said, his tone making it clear who he was speaking to, despite not looking at them.

The Stark guard and the messenger looked at each other, looking confused, before the guard turned back to Jon.

“But, Your Grace-” he began before Jon cut him off.

“I am sure that I am capable of handling one man, who is shackled,” Jon replied, with a hint of sharpness in his voice.

The two men immediately nodded at the shift of his tone, both looking worried that they had offended their king, before exiting the room, leaving them alone with Stone. As they left, Jorah and Grey Worm met each other’s eyes and nodded. Grey Worm then left the room, seemingly to stand guard outside to prevent any eavesdroppers, and Jorah taking position on the inside. As Jon returned his attention to Littlefinger’s underling, Sansa moved over to the satchel and began to rifle through it, clearly looking for the document.

“So,” Jon said finally. “What task would Littlefinger entrust to you that would take you away from Winterfell?”

Robert Stone said nothing, but Dany saw him shifting slightly, looking over at Sansa’s searching nervously. The sight pleased Dany, as it meant that there was something in there that he didn’t want them to see.

And, sure enough, a few moments later Sansa gave a small noise of surprise and triumph as she read through a scroll of parchment, that looked at lot older than the rest.

“He has it,” Sansa said, as she took a step forward to give it to Jon. “Littlefinger must have sent Stone south to meet whoever was bringing it him, so it wouldn’t be found by any of our guards. Baelish must have hoped to bribe one of the guards for them to turn a blind eye and allow Stone back inside.”

“How can you know that?” Jorah asked gruffly.

“Because I know how he thinks,” Sansa replied, before correcting herself. “How he _thought._ He spent too much time in King’s Landing, and believed that anyone can be paid or manipulated into his service. I’m sure that he would think that he could sway enough of the guards here to side with him over you.”

At this Arya gave a snort of disgust and Dany saw that she had a look of supreme distaste and loathing on her face. Dany herself was a little shocked by the naivety and foolishness of Littlefinger in this case as, from what she had seen of them, the Northerners were very loyal to both their king and to the Stark family themselves. Dany found it hard to believe that very many of them would be swayed by Littlefinger and his attempted schemes.

Dany looked over at Jon, who was still reading the document in his hand. She couldn’t see his face, so she had no idea of his reaction to the news. However, Jon’s rigid stance and slight tremble to his hand were not good signs.

After a moment, Jon turned and offered the document for her to read, his face blank and unreadable. Dany took the parchment and quickly read it through.

_This is a declaration that in the year 281 AL, Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen, the Prince of Dragonstone, and Lady Lyanna of House Stark were wed in the sight of the Seven and the Old Gods of the Forest._

_As a result of their union, their son, the Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen, was born, now third in line to the Iron Throne of Westeros._

As Dany reached the end, she looked up at Jon, feeling a rush of sympathy of him. Dany knew that there had likely been a part of Jon that was still hoping for this to all be revealed as some kind of misunderstanding or trick. But by holding this in his hands, which was as the best proof that he was likely to get, any hope of that was extinguished. While Dany herself was pleased for there to be another Targaryen on the world, and for it to be Jon Snow of all people, she was not so deluded as to think that he would have the same enthusiasm for the idea.

Before she could say anything to him, Jon abruptly turned to face Robert.

“Do you know what this letter contains?” Jon asked. “What it means?”

“It means that you are no Stark,” the boy said, and Dany was surprised by the vehemence in his voice.

To Dany’s surprise, she heard Sansa chuckle from beside her, and saw everyone look over at her confused.

“It is strange, Robert,” Sansa said. “I see your mouth moving, but all I hear is Littlefinger’s words.”

Robert cast his eyes down to the floor, looking abashed, before speaking again.

“It means that you are a Targaryen,” he muttered, still addressing the floor.

“So, Robert, you have a choice to make,” Jon said, as he pulled up a chair opposite him.

“If you agree to keep quiet over what you have learned, I will allow you to head back to the Vale, alive and well.”

Robert’s look of shock was matched by everyone else in the room. Dany saw Missandei give her a stunned look, and saw the Stark sibling look at each other, trying to understand the reasoning behind Jon’s decision.

Dany looked at the back of Jon’s head wondering what was influencing his decision to send the boy away, despite him having knowledge over his true parentage.

“However, Robert, I want you to understand. If you later decide to tell others what you know not only will nobody believe you without any proof to confirm your accusations, you would also be held for treason, as well as for aiding Baelish in his.”

Robert’s face sagged slightly at this, with a look of defeat crossing his face. However, this look didn’t last long, before it changed into one of anger.

“And if I don’t?” he spat, his anger clear in his words.

“Then you, like your benefactor, will be executed for treason,” Jon replied, and Dany could hear his own anger in response.

A moment of silence fell after Jon’s words, and Dany joined the others in looking between Jon and the scowling young man, who was glaring up at Jon with poorly disguised anger and hatred on his face.

Suddenly, Robert shot up from the bed, his shackles clanging in his haste. Dany jumped back a step and saw both Arya and Jorah instinctively draw their blades, with Jon also half-drawing Longclaw from its sheath before halting when he realised that Robert was no threat to him.

“Then so be it, _dragon_ ,” the young man snarled, before spitting into Jon’s face. “Kill me, like you killed him.”

“Very well then,” Jon replied, wiping his face before speaking to the room at large. “Summon the guards. Have him taken down to the block.”

Dany turned to Jorah and nodded, silently bidding him to do as Jon asked. As Jorah backed out of the room, Arya darted forwards, causing Jon and Sansa to call warnings to her, which were ignored. Arya grabbed hold of the man’s hair, pulling his head down so that the point of her blade was mere inches from his eye.

“You breathe a word about Jon, to _anyone_ , and you won’t make it to the block,” Arya snarled.

“Arya,” Jon warned, his voice full of concern and fear rather than anger.

Dany looked over to him and saw that he was watching Arya with an almost helpless look on his face, and Dany felt a pang in her gut for him when she realised that this was probably the first time that Jon has seen Arya act like this.

Jon had told her that Arya had always been a little wild but, from the little that Dany had beard about Arya’s journey the last few years, she also knew that Arya had been through a difficult ordeal and had been changed by that.

Something that Jon was clearly having a hard time reconciling with the image he’d had in his head of his little sister, of how she had been the last time that he had seen her, to the person that was before him.

Arya let go of Stone and backed away a few paces, with a look of pure venom so strong that Dany was a little surprised that Stone didn’t cower. As the door opened and a couple of guards entered, Arya sheathed her blade, before flashing a further look of warning over to the stunned Vale boy. There was a blanket of nervous tension in the room, as everyone present was expecting an outburst from Stone, with Arya’s bloody reprisal in retaliation.

But neither happened.

The silence was then broken by Jon addressing the guards.

“Take him to the block,” he commanded. “As Baelish’s accomplice, he will meet the same fate.”

The guards grasped hold of Stone firmly and marched him from the room, leaving the remaining occupants of the room in silence once more, on tenterhooks as to whether Stone would reveal their secret. After a moment, Arya turned and left the room in silence, her hand coiling around the hilt of her blade once more, clearly moving to make sure her threat would come true if Stone spoke out of turn.

Dany was so focused on watching Arya leave that she was surprised when she felt someone tugging at the document that was still in her hands. Dany turned to see Jon staring at her intensely, causing Dany to start at their sudden closeness, although she was not opposed to it.

Jon took back the document and studied it once more, his brow furrowing once more.

“So, this is the only proof of my parentage,” Jon said quietly, almost to himself. “There are no other copies of it?”

“No,” Jorah replied, who had retaken his position at the door. “Archmaester Willem had it locked away for nearly two decades, so there was no chance for duplicates to be made. And it is highly unlikely that Littlefinger would have had the time to produce any convincing copies.”

“And even if he did, there are still those who would consider _this_ a fake,” Sansa said, looking at Jon. “While this would be proof enough for many people, there will be those who wouldn’t believe it unless they _saw_ Lyanna giving birth to you.”

Jon nodded a little with such a look of utter concentration on his face that Dany wondered if he was even aware of what Sansa had even said. She watched Jon look down at the letter, flicking it back and forth between his fingers, before his expression changed suddenly, from concentration to determination, as though he had come to an important decision.

Jon then turned and, to Dany’s shock, threw the letter into the fire.

Everyone in the room made noises of surprise, as the old, dried parchment quickly burned. Dany looked between Sansa, who gave a helpless look, completely astonished by these events. Jon then turned to face them and gave a shrug in response to their astounded faces.

“Now no-one will know,” Jon said, with an air of finality.

However, Dany could sense some tension behind his words, in the way his jaw was set and his rigid stance. Dany could tell that, while he knew it was for the best, Jon hated the idea of lying to every one of his subjects and keeping this a secret from them.

Another thing that Dany admired about him… his honesty.

Without saying another word, Jon walked past them and exited the room, with Dany and Sansa meeting eyes in his wake. As the door snapped shut behind Jon, Dany saw Sansa give a large sigh.

“He is hating this, isn’t he?” Dany said quietly. “Keeping this from everyone.”

“Yes, he is too much like Father and Robb,” Sansa replied, with a wistful smile. “Too honourable.”

After a moment, the group turned to follow Jon, back to the courtyard. They re-joined Arya, who had retaken the same spot as she had when they had been watching Littlefinger’s execution, standing with her arms folded over her chest as she glared over at Robert Stone, as he took his place in front of the block.

The crowd was a lot more subdued this time around as, while they all knew that this was an accomplice of Littlefinger in his treason, his crimes were mostly unknown to them as they had not been as public.

Robert Stone, despite his clear anger and hatred towards Jon, did not say anything when asked if he had any last words, merely spitting onto the ground in response, drawing jeers from the crowd.

_Arya’s threat must be working,_ Dany thought, as she looked over to the youngest Stark sister, who was still glaring over at the Vale boy as he knelt at the block.

With another swing of his sword, Jon took off Stone’s head, executing his second man that day. Even from this distance, Dany could see the look of conflict on Jon’s face, and she knew that he would find this life a lot harder to take, the life of someone who, in Jon’s eyes, was barely a man.

After a moment, Jon passed his blade to his squire once more before turning and walking away, in a direction that Dany knew meant he was heading towards the godswood. Dany had learnt enough about Jon in the last few weeks to know that he would likely need his space, in order to process his actions. Before she could think more about it or change her mind, she was approached by Missandei and Grey Worm, and she was quickly distracted with the concerns of her army.

*

A few days later, Dany was standing on the battlements of Winterfell, looking out over the snow-covered landscape. Jorah and Grey Worm were with her, standing ten feet away on either side of her, to keep her safe but also giving her some privacy.

Which she was grateful for today, as she needed to be alone with her thoughts.

Earlier that morning, Dany had received a letter from Varys, informing her that they were about to commence their final march on King’s Landing and would be there in a matter of days, if the fighting with the Lannister forces went their way.

However, it was the other news that the note held that dominated her thoughts.

The news that Jaime Lannister had surrendered Ashford to Tyrion and her southern forces and now resided in their capture had given her conflicted feelings.

While she was pleased that they had achieved a victory and such an important hostage, she had no idea what she was going to do with Jaime. While she still felt a tremendous amount of anger for him for killing her father, despite all of the awful stories that she’d heard about Aerys, she felt conflicted over having him executed. Not only was Jaime the brother of Tyrion, one of her closest advisors and a good friend, but from a strategy point of view, it made a lot more sense to keep him alive.

Dany sighed deeply, her breath smoking in front of her face in the frozen air, as she reached up and pressed her fingers to her temples, as though to calm her thoughts.

_Keeping him alive does make more sense,_ Dany reasoned, giving up trying to calm her thoughts and simply succumbing to her questions. _Rather than killing him, despite his tactical advantage and the fact that he is family of a friend, simply to retaliate for the death of someone I never met._

_And yet,_ Dany continued. _I may never have met Aerys, and by the sound of it he was not someone whose death was worth avenging, but he was still my father._

Dany groaned in frustration before kneading her forehead with her hands, regretting her decision to keep thinking, as all that she had accomplished was now she was more confused.

Determined to distract herself from her thoughts, Dany turned away from the battlement and began to walk back to the keep itself, with Jorah and Grey Worm falling into step behind her not long after. As he walked through the courtyard, Dany noticed that the people of Winterfell were regarding her with a lot less hostility and suspicion lately, with a couple of them even greeting her warmly as she passed. Dany smiled at them as she passed, very pleased by the change.

As she reached the keep, a messenger approached her, bowing low before speaking.

“Your Grace, King Jon has requested your presence in his study,” he said. “He has received news.”

“Thank you,” Dany said courteously, bowing her head in thanks as he left.

Dany immediately began walking to Jon’s study, full of excitement and curiosity at what news he could have received that would merit summoning her too.

Before long Dany reached the door to the study and knocked once. Hearing Jon’s voice answer in response, she opened the door and entered.

Jon was sat at his desk, pouring over a few letters in front of him, with Davos sat to his side, who was clearly there for his advice. Dany thought that Jon looked tired, although she could tell, by the small smile still lingering on his face, that whatever news that he had received had given him a happy surprise.

At the sound of the door opening, Jon looked up and, upon seeing her standing there, his face broke into a wide smile, an act that made Dany’s stomach jolt pleasantly as she smiled back at him. Dany couldn’t help but notice the knowing look on Davos’ face as he shook his head slightly.

“Thank you for coming, Dany,” Jon said smiling, as he offered the seat opposite him to her.

“Of course,” she replied, as she took the seat. “Your messenger said that you had received news.”

Jon lifted up two letters in response.

“I have received word, from both the Wall and Dragonstone.”

Dany straightened up slightly at these words, eager to hear more. Jon set down one of the letters before passing the other over to Dany.

“This one is from the new Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Eddison Tollett,” Jon explained, as she quickly skimmed through the letter. “The rangers of the Night’s Watch have been tracking the Night King’s army, as much as they can.”

“How close are they?” Dany asked, not bothering to read further.

“That’s the thing,” Jon replied, pointing to the letter. “According to Edd and his scouts, the Night King isn’t marching on the Wall.”

Dany felt Jorah and Grey Worm both start slightly in surprise, and she too was a little shocked by this news. From everything that Jon had told her about the White Walkers and their king, she had expected them to waste no time in marching on the Wall. Dany had privately thought that she might be lucky if she even managed to begin her conquest south.

“Why?” Dany asked. “Why aren’t they moving south?”

“They are, but just slowly. According to Edd’s scouts, their forces are stretched wide, as if they are scouring the countryside.”

Jon paused for a moment and looked her dead in the eye.

“Like they are looking for something.”

“What could they be looking for?” Dany asked, even more confused. “What could the Night King want? Or need?”

“I have no idea,” Jon replied, running his hand through his hair. “And while it does worry me, it also gives us time. According to Edd, at the speed that they are travelling, they are around a month or so’s march from the Wall.”

“We are going to march south tomorrow,” Davos informed her. “It will take us a few weeks march to King’s Landing, and the same time back, not including how long the battles will be.”

“Then we have to hope our conquest is a short one,” Dany said quietly, almost to herself.

_It will be close_ , Dany thought, as the thought of the army of the dead approach sent a chill down her spine. _We will be lucky if we manage to make it back in time._

“Hopefully it will be,” Jon replied in a reassuring voice, although Dany wasn’t sure if he was trying to reassure her or himself. “Together we do have the numbers.”

Dany knew that Jon was going to find it hard leaving his family behind, knowing about the Night King’s approach on the Wall. Taking a deep breath, Dany tried to change the subject slightly, hoping that the other news was better.

“And what about the other letter?”

Her question caused Jon to break into a smile as Davos gave him the other letter, which he then passed over to her.

“It is from Dragonstone,” he said, still smiling. “It says that the first shipment of obsidian weaponry will be ready in around a fortnight’s time and will be here a couple of weeks later.”

While this was good news, Dany was unsure of why Jon was still smiling. Before she could ask, Jorah spoke.

“Forgive me, King Jon,” he said. “But why are you receiving the news from Dragonstone, when all the men still there are loyal to Queen Daenerys?”

“The letter is not from them,” Jon replied, his smile widening even more. “It is from my friend Sam Tarly. He and Gilly travelled there to try and meet with us, but we had already left. They will be on the boat when it travels here.”

Understanding now the reason for Jon’s happiness, Dany too broke into a smile. Jon had told her about Sam and she knew that he had been Jon’s first and closest friend while at the Night’s Watch. Turning her head towards Jorah, Dany saw that he too was looking pleased by this development.

“It will be good to see Sam again,” Jorah said.

“Aye,” Jon responded, nodding. “It has been too long.”

There was silence in the room for a moment, with everyone succumbing to their own thoughts, with Dany’s being dominated by White Walkers and the horrors advancing slowly on them.

“So, Dany,” Jon said suddenly, startling her a little. “Are you ready to claim your throne?”

Dany looked back at him, leaning back in chair slightly his finger linked on the table in front of him, a small smirk on his face. She smiled back at him in response and nodded.

“Yes, I am,” she said confidently. “And with the White Wolf and the armies of the North with me, I am sure that we will win.”


	31. Sansa III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. Here is the chapter, finally. Thanks you so much for your patience everyone, I hope that it is worth the wait.   
> This chapter is definitely more of a character development chapter, rather than a plot development one, but I hope that it is enjoyable nonetheless.  
> As you might have seen from my posts of tumblr, this chapter caused a lot of trouble for me, with me having to do several rewrites. However, it did give me the chance to include two things that I liked from the most recent trailer, so that is one positive of it.   
> The next chapter will be a Jon one, and will hopefully (*fingers crossed*) be up in a MUCH shorter time frame.

 

Sansa

 

Sansa stood in the courtyard, watching the dozens of men scurrying around, readying themselves for departure. She had spent the last few days preparing for their march south but it was only now, when the time for their travel south had come, that Sansa could fully see the fruits of her labour.

The vast majority of the Northern lords had remained in Winterfell, partly to observe Littlefinger’s execution, but mainly to spare themselves any unnecessary travelling. They had merely sent messages ahead, telling their fighting men to begin their journey south and to meet up with them upon the exit from Winterfell or, in the case of Lord Manderly and the other southernmost lords, to regroup at Moat Cailin.

Over the past few days, the men had begun to arrive, slowly at first but as the days passed, the small trickle of men had become a stream, with countless men arriving by the hour. Before long, both the keep and Winter Town were full to bursting, with the later arrivals forming a camp outside the perimeter of the town. Sansa had noted that they had set up this camp as far as possible from that of the Unsullied.

It would seem that while many of the lords had agreed to work with Daenerys and her army, their men saw it differently. While Sansa knew that for the moment, the men would remain loyal to their king and not do anything against the Unsullied, she wasn’t so sure once the battles started and their blood was up, especially if the battles didn’t go their way.

_Don’t think that,_ Sansa would scold herself whenever this thought would enter her head.

Sansa looked around the courtyard once more, taking in the various standards that were placed around the perimeter wall, the cloths fluttering wildly in the wind. Sansa’s eyes were caught by a flash of silver through the various shades of brown and black, and she immediately recognised it as Daenerys’ hair. Sansa saw that the Targaryen queen was standing close to the gates, deep in conversation with Jon.

Sansa made her way over to them, nodding politely in response to the many greetings that she heard uttered towards her as she passed. As she got close to them, she heard the ending of their conversation.

“It will take us a few days riding to reach Moat Cailin,” Daenerys was saying, and now that Sansa was closer she could see the look of concern on her face. “And weeks more to reach King’s Landing, and that is without the time that it will take for any battles along the way.”

“But we have no other choice,” Jon responded, looking grave. “If we wait here for the Night King, we are condemning Tyrion and your forces in the South to death. 

“Not only that but _Cersei_ wouldn’t wait,” Jon continued, looking off into space for a moment. “She would ride here with her entire army and, if we managed to survive her attack, we would be severely weakened when the Walkers arrive.”

Sansa saw Daenerys nod slightly in response, but remained in silence, looking resigned. Sansa could tell that the pair of them had had this conversation several times before, in different variations.  

The day before, Jon had shown Sansa the letter from the Night’s Watch, revealing the slow advance of the Night King on the Wall. Sansa could tell that not only was Jon concerned over the actions of the Night King, in not pushing his full force on the Wall, but he was also concerned over leaving the Wall even more undefended by taking all of the North’s fighting men to the south.

And it seemed that Daenerys too shared his concerns.

“Jon is right,” Sansa said, announcing her presence to the two of them. “If we want to beat the Night King, then we will need Cersei gone. We cannot face the White Walkers if there is the threat of Cersei coming North.”

Daenerys turned at her voice and, after a moment, nodded her understanding. But before she could say anything more, they were joined by Arya and Bran. Sansa could see that while Bran was looking both concerned but also resigned to their departure, Arya was looking mutinous.

Bran was being pushed in a wheeled chair that had been made for him, to prevent him from having to be carried everywhere throughout the keep. While he still needed to be carried up the staircases, he no longer needed to be carried from the godswood, where he spent most of his time, to many other places in the keep. Sansa knew that while Bran had long ago resigned himself to needing to be carried around due to his injury, she could see the uncomfortable look on his face whenever a Stark man picked him up.

“We should be going too,” Arya said, when she reached them. “We have spent so much time apart, and now you are telling us to stay here while you leave again.”

There was a moment of silence following Arya’s words. Sansa knew that all of the Stark children all felt the same way but at the same time she also knew that they had no choice. Sansa herself felt awful at the idea of leaving Winterfell and her siblings behind to head for Riverrun to gain their support, so she could understand Arya’s anger.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa noticed that Daenerys was looking quite uncomfortable, and Sansa guessed that she was feeling as though she was intervening in a family matter. Daenerys backed away a few paces and, after speaking a few words to Jorah, excused herself to prepare her men for travel. Sansa knew that Daenerys had no need to personally oversee the men’s departure and was likely doing it as a way to give them a sense of privacy, which Sansa was grateful for.

“Arya,” Jon said sternly, once again strongly reminding Sansa of Father, making her smile in spite of herself. “We have spoken about this. Where we are going will be dangerous, you need to stay here. We _have_ just gotten back together, so we cannot take any risks with our lives.”

Arya turned to Sansa and looked at her with an almost pleading look on her face, as though hoping for some support. With a pang in her gut, Sansa shook her head slightly, feeling immensely guilty that she could do nothing to ally her sister’s concerns.

Arya continued to look mutinous for a moment, before Bran reached out and gripped her arm.

“Arya,” he said softly. “They are right. We need to stay here.”

Arya looked back a Bran and after a few moments, seeing the look on determination on his face, all the anger left her and she nodded resignedly. The look of defeat on her sister’s face made Sansa feel even more guilty but before she could do anything, Jon took a few steps forward and lowered himself down so his face was level with Arya’s.

“’There must always be a Stark in Winterfell’,” Jon reminded her quietly, before leaning forward and lacing a hand on her shoulder.

“If the Wall falls,” he began, his face becoming extremely grave. “If you get word that Night King has gotten through, then head south immediately.”

Jon paused for a moment, looking between Arya and Bran’s faces.

“I can lose Winterfell again,” he continued, with a tremor of emotion in his voice. “But not you two.”

Arya nodded again in response to his words and Sansa saw the angry determination return to her face.

“You better come back,” she growled, before throwing her arms around Jon’s neck, making him stagger back a few paces before he righted himself and gripped her back just as firmly.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa could see Daenerys looking over at the pair with a wide smile on her face, a smile that Sansa mimicked without thought. Arya and Jon had always been close, ever since they had all been children growing up here… a lifetime ago. But seeing it again filled Sansa with happiness, once more overjoyed at their reunion, in spite of their nearing parting.

After a long moment, the two released each other, with Jon placing a kiss onto the top of her head. Arya looked up at her brother for a moment longer, before turning to Sansa and striding over.

“ _Both_ of you,” Arya said, before hugging Sansa too.

After their childhood tensions, Sansa still found it strange at how their relationship had changed but, as she felt Arya’s surprisingly strong grip around her, she was immensely grateful for it. As the two sisters embraced, Sansa watched Jon bid goodbye to Bran, first ruffling his hair affectionately before bending down and hugging his brother.

As Arya let go of Sansa, she turned and walked away, clearly trying to hide her emotions at seeing her family part once more. Sansa shared a concerned look with Jon, and saw that her feelings of sadness were mirrored on his face.

“She’ll be fine,” Bran said suddenly, his tone soft. “I’ll keep an eye on her.

“And on you two as well,” he said cryptically, looking between them both.

Sansa shared a baffled look with Jon, who turned to Bran and raised his eyebrows inquisitively.

“What do you mean?” Jon asked, with the ghost of a smirk on his face.

While the siblings all knew about Bran’s abilities, it was still hard for them to comprehend all of the incredible things that he was capable of.

“Exactly what I said,” Bran replied. “There are weirwood trees in the south. Not as many as there are this far north but there are enough. From them I can warg into birds or other animals, so I can keep an eye on your progress.”

“But don’t lose focus,” Jon advised, placing a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You said that you wanted to train your abilities for the fight against the Night King. Don’t waste too much time looking in on us, and fall behind because of it.”

“I won’t,” Bran said, nodding up at Jon.

Smiling, Sansa turned away from the sight of her brothers to look back over the courtyard. It was beginning to thin out now, with the bulk of the men now outside the walls, mounting up for the long trek south. She looked between the remaining faces, only recognising a few of them

After a moment, her eyes found Arya once more, barely visible in a secluded corner of the courtyard, in front of the newly legitimised Gendry Baratheon. Arya had told them all about her travels with Gendry while hiding from the Lannisters, but she had omitted to tell them the obvious closeness that they shared, something that Sansa had noticed very quickly after seeing them together.

She could see it in them now. There was a look of warmth and affection on Arya’s face that Sansa hadn’t seen in a while, unless it was directed towards a family member.

Just as Sansa was about to turn away, to give them some privacy, Gendry leaned down and, placing his hand on the side of Arya’s face, he titled her head upwards to capture her mouth with his own. Sansa stood stunned for a moment, knowing she should look away to give her sister privacy, but unable to do so.

Arya visibly stiffened at the touch of Gendry’s lips on her own, but after a moment Sansa saw her relax slightly, her fingers gripping into the front of Gendry’s shirt. After a moment, a group of men walked across in front of Sansa, blocking her view of the corner.

After a moment, Sansa felt someone come to a stop next to her and turned to see Jon standing there, looking at her with a look of confusion on his face. Sansa realise that it must be quite strange for her to be staring out over the courtyard at nothing in particular.

_Did he see?_ Sansa wondered, as the men passed by, revealing the now empty corner.

“Are you ready?” Jon asked, his tone giving no indication that he knew what was causing her distraction.

“Yes,” Sansa said, before turning and following Jon over to the stables, where her white mount was waiting for her.

When she reached her horse, the reins of which were being held by a stable boy to prevent it from rearing up, Sansa paused for a moment and turned around, drinking in the sight and sounds of her home. The tall towers tipped with snow-covered roofs, joined by the high walls, all in dark grey stone. The sounds of the blacksmith working away at his anvil. The sight of ravens flying from the rookery.

These things all brought a smile to Sansa’s face, despite the knowledge that she would be leaving it behind again. Looking to her left, she saw that Jon was doing the same, with a wistful look on his face. Sansa realised that Jon must be feeling similar to her, but matched with the knowledge that this was the second time that he had left Winterfell since they had retaken it.

_Except this time, he is off to fight a war,_ Sansa thought, as she studied the look on Jon’s face. _With the possibility that he might not make it back._

Dismissing those thoughts once more, Sansa steered her mount towards the gate, her horse falling into step behind Jon’s. As they passed through Winter Town, Sansa could see countless face looking out at them as they passed, as well as many shouts of ‘King in the North’ and cheers for the Starks. Sansa saw Jon raise his hand in acknowledgement of their shouts, even reaching down to grasp some of their hands as they reach out to him, which only served to spur them on further.

While Sansa knew that Jon hadn’t wanted to become a king, she had to admit that he had grown into the role and had performed his duties competently. Seeing him interact with his subjects like this gave Sansa a huge feeling of pride for her brother.

Before long they had fallen into a formation, with Jon and Sansa leading the Northern forces, flanked by Davos, Brienne and, to Brienne’s discomfort, Tormund. As they reached the Unsullied camp, Sansa saw Daenerys waiting for them, sitting astride her silver mare. She joined Sansa and Jon at the front of the procession, giving them both a wide smile as she did so, with Jorah, Grey Worm and Missandei joining the second row. The Unsullied joined the procession of men behind them, not breaking their rigid formation.

They rode for several hours until they made camp at nightfall. Or more accurately two camps, divided by the Kingsroad, splitting the Unsullied and the Northerners once more.

Once the tents had been pitched, Sansa stood in hers, huddled around a brazier that had been set up to keep the chill from the tent. As she stood warming herself by it, her mind was running.

First, she thought of what faced them, the battles and the diplomacy that would be needed. She didn’t dwell on this for too long however, as she felt that she had wasted too much of her thoughts lately on these unknowns.

Hearing a bird outside, barely audible over the loud rabble from the soldier’s camp, caused Sansa to remember Bran’s words. She still struggled with the reality of the fact that he could project his mind into animals and control their actions and see through their eyes. She had heard of people with these abilities but they had been during the tales that Old Nan had told them as children, not her brother. Her mind grappled with several questions that, despite Bran answering them as much as he could, she knew that no answer could ever satisfy without experiencing it herself _._

_What did it feel like? Did he still remember who he was? Or does he just think he is whatever he had taken possession of?_

Sansa’s thoughts drifted from Bran to Arya, wondering if she was better since their departure. Thinking back to the look on Arya’s face, Sansa felt a fresh rush of sadness at having to leave them behind.

_She will be fine_ , Sansa thought, as she rubbed her hands together in the glow of the fire. _She is stronger than we give her credit for. We still see her as the child we knew her as, but she grown a lot since then._

As she thought this, Sansa remembered seeing her with Gendry and a small smile creased across her mouth.

_She has definitely grown._

By now she was convinced that Jon hadn’t seen anything, as Sansa was sure that he would have mentioned it to her by now. While she had no intention of revealing Arya’s secret to Jon, preferring to allow her to do so when she wished to, Sansa knew that confronting Gendry was another matter.

The protective feeling that Sansa had over this was further proof to her over the growth of the sisterly bond that they had developed since their reunion. Sansa knew, better than most, that if this same situation had occurred just a few short years ago, then she would have acted very different. Sansa cringed as she thought of what he younger and occasionally spiteful self would have done.

_I would likely have revealed it in front of her at dinner,_ Sansa thought. _Humiliated in front of everyone, simply because I could._

Shaking her head at memories of her previous acts towards her sister, Sansa re-focused herself on deciding what to do about Gendry. She had barely spoken a few sentences to him, and all she knew of him came from Arya’s tales of their journeys.

After a moment of thought, Sansa came to a decision. She turned away from the brazier and grabbed her cloak, swinging it around her shoulders as she strode towards the exit of the tent.

As she exited the tent she turned her fur collar up around her neck to protect her against the chill wind, which was biting into her exposed flesh after the warmth of the tent. Sansa turned to her right and saw Brienne huddled over a camp fire, keeping her vigil outside her tent to keep her safe. Sansa felt a rush of gratitude as she saw the length that Brienne was going to in keeping her safe, but also guilt at seeing her being exposed to the biting cold while she was in the warmth of her tent.   

Sansa walked over to Brienne and cleared her throat.

“Lady Brienne,” Sansa said, causing the woman to scramble to her feet.

“My lady,” Brienne replied, bowing low.

Shaking her head slightly, Sansa motioned for her to rise.

“I wish to take a walk. Would you like to accompany me?” Sansa continued, wanting it to sound like a request to a friend rather than an order.

“Of course, my lady,” Brienne replied.

Sansa nodded her thanks before striding away through the camp, with Brienne flanking her. As she passed by, she heard several greetings of ‘Lady Stark’ being directed towards her and she smiled politely back in response.

She passed through many small groupings of tents, all surrounding the standard of their house, with Sansa recognising all of them as those of Northern houses. However, in the distance, Sansa recognised the black and yellow colours of the Baratheon standard, looking very conspicuous.

Sansa made her way towards it, noticing as she did so that it wasn’t, understandably, surrounded by many tents like the others. However, when she reached it, Sansa saw that Gendry was not there. Feeling a little disgruntled, she began looking around, trying to see if he was close by, even approaching his tent and calling his name, waiting to see if he was inside.

However, there was no answer.

Sansa was about to turn away and return to her tent, feeling disappointed, when a voice called to her.

“Lady Sansa,” came the voice from a solider bearing the sigil of House Cerwyn, who had camped nearby.

Sansa turned to him and saw that he was looking a little concerned, as Brienne took a step forward and adopted a protective stance, with her hand on the hilt of her blade. Sansa placed a reassuring hand on Brienne’s arm to try to calm the situation slightly, before turning to the speaker and smiling slightly, urging him to continue.

“I saw Lord Gendry talking with some Glover men,” the man said, still eyeing Brienne suspiciously, before pointing over to their right. “Over there somewhere.”

“Thank you,” Sansa said politely, nodding her head in thanks.

As the man, after casting one final suspicious look towards Brienne, turned and headed back over to the Cerwyn encampment. As soon as he left, Sansa saw Brienne relax slightly. Shaking her head slightly in amusement, Sansa headed off in the direction that he had indicated.

Before long Sansa realised that the direction that they were walking would take them around the outskirts of where the Free Folk had encamped themselves. While Sansa knew that they posed no threat to her due to their alliance with Jon, it didn’t do much to change how intimidating some of them looked.

Sansa’s nerves were offset slightly when she saw the red-haired form of Tormund sat around one of the nearby campfires, drinking and laughing raucously with some of his men. Tormund looked up as they passed by and raised his goblet to Sansa in response to her nod of acknowledgment.

However, at the sight of Brienne, Sansa could see, even from this distance, his excitement. His mouth broke into a wide grin, his beard twitching. Brienne quickened her pace slightly, so that she was forging the path for Sansa, who followed as quickly as she could, smiling slightly.

“It would seem that Tormund has taken a liking to you,” Sansa said, smirking slightly as she cast a look over to her protector.

“Hmm,” Brienne grunted, with a look on her face that told Sansa that she was not enthusiastic about the idea.

Sansa shook her head slightly, before increasing her pace as they walked towards where Gendry should be. As they got closer, the sound of raucous celebration grew louder and louder, with cheers and chants echoing over the masses of people. Sansa was drawn to the centre of the throng, in which a large campfire burned.

As the crowd realised who she was, and partly due to the imposing form of Brienne, they began to part to allow her to pass, their expressions becoming confused even in the drunken state. As the last group parted, Sansa saw that the large bonfire was surrounded by several logs that were being used as makeshift benches, upon with dozens of men were sat, drinking from horns and tankards.

Many of them, Sansa saw, had scantily clad women on their lap. She was momentarily confused by this, until she remembered being told that many of the whores from the brothels in Winter Town and Mole’s Town had made the trek south too. While Sansa had not formally made the arrangements for this, she knew that if she had opposed it then it could lead to a drop in morale, regardless of how she personally felt about it.

After a moment, Sansa recognised the bearded form of Gendry, as he watched the revelry of the others with a small smile on his face. Like the others he sat with a tankard held loosely in his hand. Unlike some of the others, he did not have a woman anywhere near him, despite a few of them throwing him admiring looks. Seeing him surrounded by alcohol and women, as well as his physical appearance, reminded Sansa more and more of what she had heard, and briefly seen, about his father.

A similarity that caused Sansa to feel a rush of anger, despite her hope that the similarities would end there.

Sansa took a step forward and raised her voice to carry over the din.

“Lord Gendry,” she said loudly, causing all heads to turn to her, and a silence to immediately fall over the crowd.

Sansa could see them all looking at each other, sharing confused and stunned looks. She even saw a few of them shunt the women off their laps, as if the sight of it would offend or embarrass her. Shaking her head slightly in exasperation at their actions, she continued to speak to Gendry.

“I would like to speak with you,” she continued, before looking around the clearing. “If you are not too busy.”

Gendry drained his tankard, before rising to his feet and smiling.

“Of course,” he said as he walked towards her. “We can use my tent. It is closer.”

They began to walk away, back to where Sansa had just come from. When they saw the Baratheon sigil on the horizon, Sansa heard the sounds of the revelry beginning once more behind her. Sansa turned her head slightly back toward the sound, scowling slightly.

“It helps to distract them,” Gendry said, surprising her.

Sansa turned back to him, and saw that he was looking at her out of the corner of his eye.

“The drinking and the whores, I mean,” he continued. “Thinking that tomorrow might be your last, it can weigh on your mind. So, you take any distraction that you can.”

“It sounds like experience there, Lord Gendry,” Brienne said, from behind them.

Gendry merely shrugged in response.

“I’ve been where they are now. The nights before we were to attack bandit groups or the Brotherhood. Wondering if you are going to end up dead or crippled. Sometimes you need a distraction.”

“And what was yours?” Sansa asked, as they reached his tent.

“Ale, usually,” Gendry replied, with a small smile as he entered the tent.

Brienne grumbled slightly under her breath as she reached forward to hold the tent flap open for Sansa to enter, clearly annoyed at Gendry’s lack of knowledge over his courtesies as a lord. Sansa however, didn’t care, as she had more important things on her mind. As Sansa entered the tent, she gestured for Brienne to remain outside, who dropped the flap behind her.

Sansa looked around the tent that, despite its spaciousness as a lord’s tent, was rather sparsely decorated. Sansa walked over to Gendry as he filled two goblets with amber liquid, before offering one to her.

She took it, before raising an eyebrow to him in confusion.

“I don’t have any wine,” he shrugged. “I prefer ale or mead.”

Sansa took a sip from the goblet, before shaking her head slightly and setting it down. Her tongue was used to the taste of wine, so it found the ale too bitter. She returned her gaze to Gendry, who was smiling at little at her reaction to the drink. His smile didn’t last however as, once he lowered his goblet, his expression turned serious.

“What can I do for you, my Lady?” Gendry asked. “You are obviously here to discuss something.”

Sansa was momentarily taken aback by this bluntness, before she realised the reason for it. Gendry had only been a lord for a few short weeks, so he had no knowledge or interest in the subtle game that the lords played between themselves, particularly in Kings Landing. He was too used to speaking his mind.

Something that Sansa was very grateful for, as it prevented the usual dancing around the subject and subtle clues that went with other interactions with the lords.

“Arya,” Sansa said simply, crossing her arms over her chest.

At this, Gendry looked surprised for a moment, his mouth actually dropping open slightly, before he recovered. He swigged from his goblet once more, before addressing Sansa.

“What about her?” he grunted evasively.

Sansa merely raised her eyebrows at him, and his tense posture sagged.

“You saw us?” he said. “In the courtyard?”

“You weren’t exactly hiding,” Sansa snapped, shaking her head at his naivety.

Sansa paused slightly, thinking about her next move. Taking a deep breath, she looked into his eye.

“Do you care about her?”

“What?” he replied, looking genuinely confused and stunned.

“Do you care about her?” she repeated, a bite of anger in her voice. “Or are you taking after your father, and she is just another woman that you are taking to your bed, to be discarded afterwards?”

Gendry visibly recoiled at her venomous words, as though Sansa had slapped across the face. He quickly regained his composure and his face become covered by a look of anger.

“I am _not_ my father,” he growled angrily.

Sansa raised her eyebrows once more, not convinced by this, a fact that he seemed to understand.

“I know what he was,” he said gruffly, running a hand nervously through his beard. “Drinking and taking a different woman to his bed whenever he fancied. That is not me.

“Arya’s very important to me,” he continued, his voice getting faster and his tone angrier, as he looked her dead in the eye. “She always has been. She was the first person to ever give a shit about me. Before her, no one ever did. To them, I was just a bastard apprentice blacksmith, born in Flea Bottom. Nothing else.”

He stopped abruptly, looking annoyed with himself, clearly feeling like he had said too much. Sansa, feeling more convinced with this answer, felt a rush of guilt at her harshness, and the fact that she had allow her newfound overprotectiveness to override her reason.

“I’m sorry, Gendry,” she said quietly. “I haven’t always been the best sister to Arya. I didn’t help or protect her when she needed me to, especially when we were younger. So, I guess I’m trying to make it up to her.”

She paused for a moment in her confession before continuing.

“I _did_ think that you might be like Robert, and finding you where I did, surrounded by drink and whores didn’t help.

“ _But_ ,” she said, after a pause. “It does _seem_ like you do care for her. And I hope that you do, for your sake.”

Gendry looked back at her, visibly baffled by this. Sansa smiled back in response.

“I assume that Arya has told you what she has been up to for the last few years. What do you think that she would do if she found out that you were manipulating her?”

Gendry was silent for a moment, before chuckling lightly.

“I think I know _exactly_ what she would do,” he laughed, before growing more serious. “But that will not happen.”

Sansa nodded in reply, happy with his response, and feeling more and more guilty and ashamed by her outburst and presumption the more she thought about it.

“I should probably go,” Sansa said, turning to leave.

She reached the entrance, before turning back to Gendry.

“Gendry, I’m sorry.”

He nodded back at her, in silent acceptance of her apology.

Sansa exited the tent and caught Brienne’s gaze, who looked at her expectantly, clearly having overheard something, but said nothing. Sansa was glad for it, as she was still angry with herself for her presumptions towards Gendry.

Without saying anything, Sansa began to walk back to her tent, with Brienne following. The camps were still packed with people, however many of them were now too interested in their stories and singing to notice her as she made her way past them.

Before long, she reached her tent and, after bidding goodnight to Brienne, entered, hoping to put the events with Gendry out of her mind.

*

The following night, after a full day’s travel down the Kingsroad, they had made camp once more, with the road splitting the camp once more. Sansa, after growing restless of sitting in her tent, had decided to take a walk through the camp. As she had left her tent, Brienne had insisted on accompanying her, although Sansa had forbidden it, instead telling her to rest after their long ride that day.

As she walked along the road, she passed by several tents, with some of the inhabitants greeting her as she passed. However, it wasn’t until she passed by a small tent, set apart from the others, that the greeting she received caused her to stop dead in her tracks.

“Little Bird,” came a gruff voice.

Sansa turned on the spot to see the instantly recognisable face of the Hound emerge from the tent. While she was not surprised to see him with them, having known of his allegiance with the Brotherhood from Arya, she was still shocked at coming across him like this, in such a large encampment.

She had stayed away from him during his time at Winterfell, something that was made easier by the fact that the Hound rarely set foot into the keep, preferring to stay in the large house in Winter Town that had been gifted to the Brotherhood by Jon for their lodgings in thanks for their actions in saving Arya.

“Ser Sandor,” Sansa replied politely, watching with amusement as his burned face contorted slightly in confusion at being addressed this way.

“It has been a long time,” he growled, standing up to his full height and towering over her.

However, despite this, she didn’t feel any fear in his presence, like she had during her time in King’s Landing. Maybe it was a result of all the hardships that she had endured, or maybe it was due to her knowledge of how he had helped Arya during her travels before she had headed off to Braavos.

Sansa didn’t respond to his statement, merely nodding slightly, her thoughts of Arya being more important.

“Thank you,” Sansa said, causing him to become even more confused.

“What for?” he growled, scowling at her.

“Arya,” she said simply, and she saw his burned face become covered by a look of realisation. “You’ve kept her safe, twice. Stopped her from dying at the Twins.”

“You could have been there too,” he said bluntly. “If you had left at Blackwater when I had offered.”

“I know,” Sansa replied sadly.

She had thought about this several times, wondering what might have been different if she had accepted his offer. She knew that she never would have been married to either Tyrion or Ramsay, and many of the terrible things that she had endured might never have happened.

_And I would have seen Arya sooner,_ Sansa thought sadly.

Before either of them could say any more, there was the sound of footsteps behind her.

“Lady Sansa,” Brienne said, as she came to a halt.

Sansa turned just in time to see Brienne lay eyes on the Hound, and saw her expression change from realisation to surprise and finally to anger all in the space of a few moments. Sansa saw her hand go to the hilt of her blade, and action that seemed to amuse the Hound.

Sansa looked between the two of them and realising, from the tense look on their faces, that they were both remembering the fight between them that she had heard about, from both Brienne and Arya.

Before Sansa could say a thing, the Hound spoke again, this time with a mocking sneer that was reminiscent of his time in King’s Landing.

“Are you going to draw that blade? Or are you going to stand there and keep fucking posturing?” he growled, with a confident smirk on his face.

“How are you still alive?” Brienne asked, seemingly in spite of herself.

The Hound merely shrugged.

“I guess you aren’t as good as you thought,” he said, his tone thick with hostility.

While Sansa knew that Brienne was too honourable to resort to similar taunts, she could see that her protector was struggling to hide her anger.

“Brienne,” Sansa said in warning, attempting to diffuse the situation, not wanting to start a brawl within their camp.

Before anyone could say anymore, another voice broke the tense silence.

“Lady Sansa.”

Turning to the voice, Sansa was shocked to see Daenerys walking towards them, accompanied by her Missandei, Grey Worm and Jorah Mormont. She saw that all of them were looking between Brienne and the Hound, looking alerted by the obvious tension, with Grey Worm and Jorah’s hands at their weapons.

Sansa breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that their presence should stop the Hound.

_He has a short temper but he is not that foolish,_ Sansa thought. _Is he?_

Sansa watched as the Hound looked between the three armed individuals in front of him, his hand twitching slightly as he glanced over to where his giant sword lay. After a long moment, however, he merely shrugged.

“You aren’t who I want to kill,” he growled to Brienne, who merely furrowed her brow in confusion. “So, I’m not going to miss my chance at it in some fucking pissing match with you three.”

“Who do you want to kill _that_ much?” Brienne asked, to the man’s retreating back as he returned to his tent.

He didn’t answer.

“His brother,” Sansa said quietly, almost under her breath.

Brienne turned to her with a shocked look on her face, but Sansa merely nodded grimly in response, before turning to Daenerys.

“Thank you, Daenerys,” she said, inclining her head politely. “For the timing of your arrival.”

Daenerys nodded her head, smiling widely.

“You may call me Dany, Sansa,” she said.

Sansa was taken aback slightly by this. The only person that Sansa had heard refer to Daenerys in this way was Jon, so the importance of this was not lost on her.

“Thank you, Dany,” Sansa said earnestly.

“May I join you, Sansa?” Dany asked.

“Of course,” Sansa said, without pause, offering her arm to Dany, which she took.

The two then began to continue walking down the Kingsroad, back towards their tents, with Brienne falling a way behind her, alongside Dany’s companions, to give them some privacy to speak. The two mainly spoke of trivial matters, such as how they were both handling the long days travelling, but Sansa found it an enjoyable experience nonetheless.

She had grown to appreciate these conversations with Dany, feeling something similar to kinship between them. Having heard the little about Dany’s life as Sansa had, she could see that she was a survivor, having endured some horrible experiences.

Something that Sansa could sympathise with.

Before long, they had found their way back to where the Stark camp was, with the direwolf sigil flying all around them.

“You are very brave,” Dany said suddenly, making Sansa turn to face her. “For joining us on a march to war.”

“I wanted to do my part,” Sansa replied, shrugging slightly. “To help Jon.”

Dany smiled at these words, before gripping her arm a little tighter.

“That is something that I have grown to admire about the Starks,” Dany said quietly. “The bond that you have with each other. You would do _anything_ for each other.”

Sansa nodded her agreement, before speaking.

“‘When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.’”

“What is that?” Dany asked curiously, looking towards Sansa.

“It was something that my father used to say,” Sansa said sadly. “Usually to stop me and Arya from fighting.

“But now I see what he meant,” she said, looking Dany dead in the eye. “We are stronger together, and will likely fail if we attempt to do things apart.”

Dany smiled even wider at this, and nodded her understanding.

“As a family should be,” Dany agreed, with a note of sadness in her voice.

Sansa knew from their conversations that her lack of a family had been one of Dany’s greatest regrets and something that she had longed for her whole life. Seeking to either change the subject, or at least raise Dany’s spirits, Sansa cast her eyes around her and, after a moment of desperate looking, she found Jon, deep in discussion with Davos and Tormund.

Smiling widely, she turned back to Dany.

“Well, by the looks of things, you will a part of the pack soon enough,” Sansa said boldly.

Dany spun around to face her, looking completely baffled by this. Sansa smiled even wider at the look on her face, and merely nodded her head in Jon’s direction in answer. Dany looked even more shocked, seemingly at a loss for words.

Chuckling slightly at the look on her face, Sansa gripped her arm tightly for a moment, wanting her to understand her acceptance of her and Jon’s relationship.

“Good night, Dany,” Sansa said, nodding and smiling again.

“Good night,” Dany replied, still looking a little shocked, but also relieved at Sansa’s acceptance.

Sansa smiled once more before turning and retiring to her tent for the night.

*

They reached Moat Cailin by nightfall the next day. When they got closer, Sansa saw that there was already a sizable camp of men there, comprised mainly of Manderly men, as well as men from other smaller houses. Combined with those that were already travelling with them, the ruin was full to its mouldering rafters that night.

They didn’t set off again until noon the following day, with Jon wanting the men to have a few extra hours rest before they set off. After leaving the ruin, they continued following the Kingsroad, which was soon best on both sides by the Neck, with its swamps and bogs.

Looking to their right, Sansa could see the marshes and bogs of the Neck continue far off in the distance. Looking to her left, just ahead of her was Jon, looking even more sombre than usual, causing Sansa to shake her head. Spurring her horse onwards, she grew level with him.

“Jon,” she called, drawing his attention to her.

“Sansa,” he replied, raising a curious eyebrow.

“Jon, what’s wrong?” she asked, before laughing at his confused look. “Your brooding is not unusual, but this is strange even for you.”

Jon looked like he was going to argue for a moment, but then he shook his head slightly. Sansa then saw his eyes dart quickly behind them, to where Dany was riding behind them.

Sansa chuckled slightly, with the mystery solved.

“Ah, Dany,” she said quietly, for Jon’s ears only. “I see.”

Jon looked like he was going to argue once more, and vehemently deny it, but then his expression changed, now looking resigned to the truth.

“She is my aunt, Sansa,” Jon said quietly, looking ahead, and Sansa heard an undertone of confusion and almost desperation in his voice. “No matter what I feel, she is my aunt. I know the Targaryens do these kinds of marriages but…”

His voice tailed off and Sansa shook her head.

“Jon, you are my brother and I love you”, she said, exasperated. “But sometimes you can be extremely foolish, and far too honourable and stoic for your own good.”

Jon returned his gaze to her, and Sansa had to suppress a laugh at the shocked look on his face.

“The Targaryens aren’t the only ones who have performed similar marriages,” Sansa said. “So, have the Starks, remember? Sansa and Serena Stark both married their father’s half-brothers. Cousins marry each other throughout Westeros all the time.

“If you and Dany marry, it won’t be the strangest wedding that has ever happened. And if you do, you will actually feel something for each other, which is more than a lot of people have.”

Jon looked back at her for a moment, visibly affected by her words. While he knew about the circumstances surrounding her marriages, they had hardly said a word about them, with Sansa preferring not to dwell on them too much. But he plainly recognised the meaning of her last sentence.

After a moment, Jon nodded, with the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Thank you, Sansa,” he said, as he steered his horse closer to her and reached out to grip her forearm in thanks.

After sharing a wide smile, the two of them separated again and continued on their way. They stayed in silence for the rest of the journey, both dwelling over their conversation, Sansa hoped that this would convince Jon as their marriage would not only be good for the kingdoms but it was clearly what they both wanted.

When they stopped to make camp that night, rather than climb down from his horse, Jon remained in the saddle, looking off into their marshy surroundings, clearly lost in thought.

“Jon?” Sansa called questioningly.

Jon turned to face them, his expression still distant. Sansa approached him, followed by Dany and Tormund. When they reached him, he had seemed to clear his head.

“I am going to follow Bran’s advice,” Jon said, addressing Sansa. “And talk to Howland Reed.”

Sansa nodded her understanding and saw Dany do the same. However, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tormund look between them questioningly, clearly still in the dark.

“He has the answers to so many of my questions,” Jon continued, seemingly more to himself than anything.

“We should set up camp here,” Jon said, returning his attention to them. “I’ll be back by morning hopefully.”

With that he spurred his horse on, to leave the road and into their marshy surroundings.

“We’ll join you,” Tormund grunted, as he spurred his own mount to follow Jon.

Jon turned around and looked like he was going to argue, but then he saw that both Sansa and Dany were spurring their mounts on too. Jon then shook his head reluctantly, clearly not finding the strength to argue with all three of them, before turning and heading off again, with the three of them following.

Before long they had been swallowed by the bog, with the moss and fungi covered trees pressing in on all sides. Several times their horses began to struggle in the mud, only barely managing to free themselves.

As they forged onwards through the increasing gloom, Sansa began to have the pressing feeling that they were being watched. She began looking around her, convincing herself that she was seeing movement amongst the dark trees, but nothing ever presented itself, friendly or otherwise.

“Sansa,” Dany hissed suddenly, making Sansa jump as she moved her silver mare closer to Sansa’s own mount. “Do you see-?”

At that moment, Jon raised his hand, coiled into a fist, to bring them to a halt. Sansa pulled up sharply on her mount’s reins, bringing her to a halt. Her heart hammering like a drum in her chest, Sansa looked wildly around the clearing that they had found themselves in, watching nervously as the dark shapes, now clearly visible, moved just outside their field of vision.

The four of them moved closer together, with Jon and Tormund both gripping the handles of their weapons, as the shadowy figures moved closer, forming a circle around them.

They were surrounded.


	32. Jon VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go guys, just in time for the new episode (btw how great have the first two been!).  
> Sorry for the long wait but there have been some unexpected technical issues on my end.  
> Just a quick note before you all start, I have included a couple of book theories in this chapter that I enjoy and believe in that have only been touched on, or not even mentioned, in the show. But as always if you have any questions feel free to leave them below or at my Twitter or Tumblr.  
> Hope you all enjoy and the next chapter will be a Bran chapter.

 

Jon

 

Jon’s eyes darted around the clearing, watching the advance of around a dozen short, shadowy figures. As they emerged from the shadows, Jon saw that they were armed with frog spears, more similar in appearance to tridents than normal spears, and even a few nets.

They had encircled them completely, Jon quickly realised, with no weak point in their formation for them to exploit. As the men grew closer, the four of them moved closer together, their mounts all growing more and more unsettled by the approaching weapons.

Jon found himself pressed against Dany and her silver mare, their knees colliding hard. Jon looked over his shoulder and saw that Tormund had drawn his blade, moving close to Sansa to protect her from the advancing strangers.

As Jon’s eyes drifted back away from his friend and sister, he caught Dany’s eye. In that brief moment of eye contact, he saw the fear in her eyes at their predicament. Jon watched as Dany averted her gaze to watch the approach of the armed strangers.

Jon turned away and began to draw Longclaw from its place at his hip. Setting his eyes on one of the nearest attackers, one who was wielding a spear in one hand and small leather shield in the other, Jon levelled his blade towards the man, ready to fight.

As the men grew ever closer, Jon felt his mount begin to grow even more disturbed, beginning to buck and rear up slightly, and Jon knew that it would only be a matter of moments, and the men growing a few more feet closer, before he lost control of it and it bolted.

However, it was at this moment that his brain began to work through the shock and confusion of their arrival. He realised, because of where they were and the stories that he’d heard from both his father and various others during his childhood, that these men were likely crannogmen, loyal to Howland Reed.

Sansa must have thought the same thing, as Jon heard her call out to the crowd.

“This is Jon Snow, the King in the North,” came Sansa’s voice, and Jon could hear the fear there. “And I am Sansa Stark. We are here to talk to your lord.”

Her words caused a brief pause in the men, as they looked at each other, before looking back at them, with increased interest this time.

“This one has the Stark wolf on him,” said the man Jon had locked eyes with earlier, who was now glaring at the straps of the cloak that Sansa had made for him, with the Stark sigil emblazoned on it.

Jon could see the hesitation on many of their faces now, unsure of how to proceed. A few of them lowered their weapons slightly, but the majority of them didn’t. Jon wasn’t surprised by this, as the crannogmen were widely known as being hostile to outsiders, due to them long being regarded as ‘mud-men’ and ‘frog-eaters’.

Before any of them could make a move, or say anything else, another voice came from behind them.

“They _are_ Starks!” the voice called, and Jon could tell it was from a woman, younger than the rest of the crannogmen. “I recognise them.”

A gap appeared in the circle and a bushy-haired young woman walked towards them. As she grew closer, Jon looked her over, wondering how she knew them.

“Meera!” came Sansa voice from behind him, now filled with relief and surprise rather than shock and fear.

Recognising the name from Bran’s tales of his travels, Jon met her eye, and saw her smile slightly.

“I guess you are wondering how I recognised you, Your Grace,” Meera said, and Jon could hear the amusement in her voice.

“Craster’s Keep,” Jon replied, causing a look of confusion to cross Meera’s face.

“Bran told me,” Jon explained, smirking slightly at the look on her face. “He told me about how you were at Craster’s when I went there to kill the Night’s Watch traitors.”

“He wanted to go with you,” Meera recalled, her voice becoming sad.

“And I wish he had,” Jon replied.

As he said this, Jon dismounted from his horse and walked towards her, extending his hand to her.

“I believe that I owe you my thanks,” Jon said, as Meera shook his hand, her look of confusion disappearing at his words. “For everything you have done for my brother.”

“You are welcome,” she said, smiling as she released his hand. “But I don’t need thanks for helping him. Bran means a lot to me.”

“So I’ve heard,” Jon said, smirking at the look of shock on her face.

Jon however, merely continued to smile and nodded slightly, silently giving his approval. After a moment, Meera’s shocked look gave way to one of gratitude. Nodding once more, Jon refocused himself on the reasons why he was here.

“Meera, I wish to speak to your father,” he said.

Meera gave him a knowing look, causing Jon to remember that she too knew of his parentage, having heard from Bran after his vision. After a moment, she turned to one of the men.

“The King in the North and his companions will come with us the Greywater Watch,” Meera said firmly, clearly taking charge of these men, all of whom older than her. “I’ll need you and few of your men to guard their horses.”

The man nodded and, after wordlessly pointing towards three other men, stepped forward to take the reins of Jon’s mount, the other three taking hold of the other three and guiding them over to the edge of the clearing.

Jon felt Sansa and Dany move closer to him and, after turning his head slightly, saw that Tormund, while he had sheathed his blade, was casting his eyes all around the clearing, clearly still distrustful of the crannogmen.

Jon reached out and grasped hold of Dany small hand, causing her to look at him.

“Are you all right?” he whispered, looking into her eyes.

“Yes,” she whispered back, gripping his hand tightly, any trace of her shock or fear at the crannogmen gone. “Thank you.”

Jon smiled at her once more, before turning around to meet Sansa’s eyes. She nodded immediately, correctly guessing his question. Jon smirked slightly when he saw that Tormund was still glaring around at the men that still surrounded the clearly, as if daring them to continue their advance.

Turning his attention back to Meera, he saw her speaking with another man who immediately hurried away into the marshes. Jon, after releasing his grip on Dany’s hand, walked towards Meera, frowning slightly in curiosity.

“I have sent him ahead to Greywater Watch,” Meera explained, clearly in response to the look on Jon’s face. “To inform my father of your arrival.”

Jon nodded his thanks, before following Meera and the other men, who had silently turned and begun to walk into the bogs. Meera looked over her shoulder as they walked.

“Once we enter the marches, you need to follow our path _exactly_ ,” she said warningly. “One false step out here can be very dangerous.”

Jon nodded at her, and felt his companions grow closer to him as they began their trek.

They walked for what seemed like hours, with the fungus covered trees, now sparkling with a covering of frost, pressing on all sides. After a while, the chill from the freezing, dirty water began to find its way through Jon’s boots, as he crunched on the various patches of ice that were forming on the surface.

As they walked, Jon marvelled at the way Meera and the other crannogmen moved through the marsh, the sureness in their footing. There were several times that Jon was sure that the next step would see them sinking into the frozen bog, but every time he was proven wrong. What appeared to be a small tuft of grass or a mouldy, fractured log, something that he was sure couldn’t possibly take their weight, might as well have been a rock under their boots.

Several times Jon’s foot slipped into the marsh, the filthy, ice cold water filling his boot. Every time Tormund helped pull his leg free, the slight chuckling at his misfortune grew even more pronounced.

“Seven hells!” Jon cursed, as he pulled his boot free for the third time.

As Jon emptied his boot once more, he saw Meera turn to face him out of the corner of his eye and saw a small smirk on her face.

“It is not long now, Your Grace,” Meera said quietly.

They walked along for a little while longer before suddenly the trees seemingly fell away to reveal an open area of marshland, with a relatively small, stout keep towering out of it above them.

“Greywater Watch,” Meera said proudly.

“Impressive,” Dany said, standing just behind Jon’s left shoulder.

“It has never been conquered,” Meera continued, and Jon could hear the pride in her voice.   

“Why not?” Dany asked curiously.

“Because it has never been found,” Meera continued, turning to smile at them.

“Because it moves,” she continued, responding to Tormund’s obvious next question.

There was a beat of silence after her words, and Jon could tell that both Dany and Tormund were trying to process this information. Jon had heard a few stories about it while growing up, so he and Sansa didn’t show as much surprise as their companions.

“It… _moves_?” Tormund said, sounding stunned.

Meera nodded in response, smirking slightly at the look of complete bewilderment on Tormund’s face. Jon saw Dany turn towards him and met her eyes, as she raised her eyebrows enquiringly, clearly looking for his confirmation of these stories. Jon nodded once, sharing Meera’s smirk when Dany’s eyes widened in surprise.

“How?” Tormund asked.

“It is built on a crannog,” Meera explained, as they turned to continue on their way to Greywater. “It is a kind of man-made island. We built our keeps and houses upon them so they are constantly moving. It is why nobody has found our keeps and why it is hard for ravens to find them.”

“But I sent a message to your father,” Sansa said, sounding confused.

“Your raven was shot down, it didn’t find the keep,” Meera explained. “The message was then passed onto my father by some of our men.”

Jon was only half listening to their conversation, preferring to put his focus on the keep that was, as they were getting closer, beginning to tower over them. While not particularly large, Jon had to admit it was an impressive sight, a feat that was certainly aided by its ability to be always moving. It was made of dark, almost black, stone with dark oak beams and roof, all covered by a layer of wet fungus and moss.

As they stepped upon the crannog, with Tormund loudly proclaiming how good it was to be standing on something firm rather than logs and rocks, Jon could feel a slight movement, so slight it would be imperceptible if he hadn’t been waiting for it.

As they walked towards the large doors, they opened inwards, revealing a short, bearded man waiting for them.

_This must be Howland Reed,_ Jon guessed.

“King Jon,” the man said, when they reached him, as he held out his hand. “It has been a long time since I saw you last.”

“Lord Reed,” Jon said, feeling his hand’s being gripped by the man’s strong grip. “It is an honour to meet you after all I have heard from Father about you.

“And after what Bran told me that you have done for me, you can call me Jon,” he continued, looking into the man’s eye, gauging his reaction.

Howland’s beard twitched as he broke into a smirk.

“I imagine that you have a great many questions,” Howland said, breaking all pretence, something Jon was grateful for. “About your mother and father, about your birth. I will do my best to answer them all.”

Howland then turned and beckoned them inside, taking the lead with Meera. Jon then followed them, with Dany and Sansa just behind him, and Tormund at the rear of the group.

Even with candles burning through the hallways, which were lined with the same dark wood as outside, it was still quite dim as they walked. Jon’s eyes were drawn to the decorations strung from the walls. Besides the expected sigil of House Reed, Jon saw many examples of their bronze weapons, knives and frog-spears, as well as a stuffed lizard-lion hanging from the wall.

Before long, Howland stopped and opened a large oak door, leading them into a large study which, like the corridors, remained quite dark despite the burning fire and the many candles around the room. However, Jon thought that it gave the room a cosier effect, having been used to the dark and gloom from his time at the Wall.

There was a large round table set up in the centre of the room, with platters of food and flagons of ale and wine covering the surface.

“Please,” Howland said politely, indicating to the table. “Have a seat.”

Jon took a seat at the table, with Dany and Sansa seating themselves either side of him. Dany was to his right and Sansa to his left, with Tormund seated on her other side. Howland took a seat immediately opposite to Jon, with Meera seated next to him.

Howland wordlessly gestured for them to help themselves, before passing around small bowls of bread and salt, traditional signs of guest right. While Jon didn’t have much of an appetite, merely placing a few token pieces of chicken and pork onto his plate, he did accept the bread and salt, nodding his thanks to Lord Reed.

While Jon had expected the need to explain the ritual to Dany, due to her long absence from Westeros, he was quietly pleased when she took the bread without question. She turned to him and flashed him an amused smirk at his surprised look.

There was a long moment of silence, where Jon merely sipped his goblet of ale, mulling over the questions that raged in his head. He saw that Howland was focusing on his plate with tremendous concentration, although Jon knew that he was likely steeling himself to answer questions that he had buried for two decades.

Finally, after taking a deep breath, Lord Reed looked up from his plate, and met Jon’s eye.

“So, Jon,” he began. “What do you wish to know?”

All of his questions flew to the tip of his tongue, as he grappled with which to ask first. After taking a deep, calming breath, Jon began.

“Lyanna and Rhaegar,” Jon blurted out finally. “What happened? What is the real story?”

Howland nodded and took a sip of his drink before he began.

“We didn’t know all of this at the time,” Howland explained, as he rubbed his hands together. “Lord Eddard and I spent a lot of time discussing this, mainly in the travel back north with you from Dorne.

“We believe that it all began at the Tourney.”

Jon nodded, immediately knowing to which tourney he was referring. Dany however, looked back and forth between Jon and Howland, looking completely in the dark. Howland saw this and turned to her.

“I apologise, my lady,” he said apologetically. “I forget that you have been away for so long.

“Around a year before the Rebellion, Lord Whent held a great Tourney at Harrenhal. There were many lords of the great houses. The Starks, the Martells, the Tyrells.

“But the most important of them was the Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and the King himself. This surprised everyone, as Aerys had been a recluse since the Defiance of Duskendale.”

Howland paused for a moment, clearly unsure if he needed to explain more. Jon heard Dany chuckled slightly under her breath.

“Lord Tyrion told me,” Dany explained. “We were speaking of Ser Barristan and Tyrion told me of how he rescued my father by himself from the castle.

“And of my father’s revenge,” Dany continued, her voice sounding hollow.

Jon shuddered involuntarily, only vaguely remembering hearing of how Aerys had slaughtered not only Lord Darklyn, but also his immediate family, as well as House Hollard, one of Darklyn’s most loyal vassals that had aided him in the Defiance.

Jon turned to see Dany looking down at the table top, looking despairing, as she often did whenever she spoke of heard about her father’s actions. Jon knew that it couldn’t be easy for her, to hear about all these atrocities, but at the same time knowing that it was her father, a man that she had never had a chance to meet.

Jon reached out under the table and took her hand in his own, their fingers interlocking. Dany didn’t raise her head to him, continuing to stare down at the table. After a moment, Dany gave Jon’s hand a firm squeeze before releasing it and raised her head to look back at Howland Reed.

“King Aerys hadn’t been seen in public since it had happened,” Lord Reed continued, tactfully moving the conversation on. “So, it was quite a shock for everyone to see him at Lord Whent’s tourney.

“The Tourney was to last for ten days, with seven of them being for the competition. Five of these days were for the joust. There was to be a melee, an archery contest, axe-throwing contest, as well as a horse race, a tourney of singers and a mummer show.

“It was to be a lavish event, with prizes that were said to dwarf those that Tywin Lannister had presented at the tourney he had hosted at Lannisport to celebrate Viserys’ birth.”

Jon saw Dany stiffen slightly at the mention of her brother’s name, and knew that he too brought out conflicted feelings in her. However, before Jon could say or do anything, Howland continued.

“The promise of these prizes brought in hundreds of challengers, from across the kingdoms, all eager to win some honour or prize for themselves.”

As Howland fell into silence, Jon’s mind became flooded with thoughts, imagining the sights and sounds of the tourney, the sights of the best knights in the kingdoms clashing on horseback. He and Robb had often asked Eddard about various tourneys throughout the kingdoms, both hoping to enter one and to win the joust.

“It was at this tourney where I met Lord Eddard and your mother, Lyanna,” Howland explained, with a small smile appearing on his lips. “As you have no doubt seen, we crannogmen are shorter and slighter than most other men from Westeros. At the Tourney, I was, I am ashamed to say, attacked by three squires, who served knights from Houses Haigh, Blount and Frey.

“But then your mother stepped in,” Howland said, and the happiness and pride in his voice overpowered the shame. “She defended me from them, and chased them off with a tourney sword.

“She then took me back to the Stark tent and cleaned and bound my wounds, introducing me to her brothers. That was the Lyanna Stark that I knew. She was kind, compassionate and always willing to help those who needed it.”

Jon smiled at this. He hadn’t heard much about Lyanna while growing up, as Lord Eddard hadn’t liked to speak about them about her, for obvious reasons. But hearing about this act of kindness filled Jon with a mixture of happiness at knowing what kind of woman his mother was but also sadness that he never got to see this kindness himself.

“Your uncle Benjen offered to get me armour and a horse, so that I could avenge myself,” Howland continued, and Jon could hear the thick undertone of shame lacing his voice. “But I didn’t, too afraid to fail and I shamed my people in doing so.”

Howland stopped abruptly and Jon could see the anger in his face. Meera reached out and placed her hand on her father’s forearm, gripping it hard. Seemingly steeled by his daughter’s support, Howland raised his head to meet Jon’s eye, a look that Jon returned without any expression of judgment or disappointment on his face.

“A few days into the tournament the three knights that the squires served had won their places in the joust. Late in the day, a mystery knight appeared in the lists, in a suit of armour that had clearly been pieced together with whatever they could find.”

Howland paused slightly, and Jon found himself leaning forward in his seat, an idea forming the back of his head about the knight’s identity, but he didn’t give it voice, unwilling to interrupt the tale.

“The Knight challenged all three of the knights and won, winning the horses and armour of all three. This was popular among the smallfolk, as none of them had been popular. The knight became known as the Knight of the Laughing Tree, because of their shield, emblazoned with a weirwood tree with a laughing red face.

“The knights tried to ransom back their property, with the Knight announcing their terms: for them to teach their squires honour. The three squires were them publicly disciplined.”

In the silence that following this, Jon dwelled over his words, the idea in his mind now making the way to the front of his mind.

_Could this Knight be…?_

Before Jon could think any further on it, his train of thought was interrupted by Howland resuming his tale.

“The Knight attracted a lot of attention, as you can imagine. Several lords, Robert Baratheon and Richard Lonmouth chief among them, wanted to unmask him. King Aerys saw the Knight as a threat and an enemy. The Knight had soon vanished, so Aerys sent Rhaegar to find him.             

“But Rhaegar said he never found the Knight, only their shield abandoned in a tree.”

“Rhaegar _said_?” Dany questioned, sounding confused. “Do you not believe that?”

“No, I don’t,” Howland replied, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, my lady. I do not wish to call your brother a liar, but it would make the most sense.”

“What do you mean?” Dany responded, and Jon could hear the curiosity in her voice.

Howland sighed deeply, and Jon could tell that this was the moment that he had been working up towards. Feeling the importance of the moment, Jon found himself literally on the edge of his seat and a quick glance out of the corner of his eyes saw that both Dany and Sansa were in a similar position.

“Lord Eddard and I believe that the Knight of the Laughing Tree was your mother, Jon,” Howland said, causing Jon to jolt in his seat slightly, his idea proven to be true.

“Jon’s mother fought three knights in those fucking steel armour suits?” Tormund laughed, before turning to face Jon, his grin obvious. “I can see where you get your sword arm from, Snow.”

“What makes you so sure?” Sansa asked, her tone suspicious. “How can you know that it was Lyanna? Where would she have gained the skill to defeat them?”

“As she grew up, Lyanna was known to be both wild and tomboyish, not dissimilar to your sister Arya in that regard, if the tales are true,” Howland replied, smiling between Jon and Sansa. “Your uncle Benjen told us of how the two of them would spar in the godswood in secret during their childhood.

“Also, it is worth remembering that the Knight of the Laughing Tree defeated the three knights in a joust. Lyanna was known as a great rider, which is large part of jousting.”

As Howland paused, Jon thought over his argument and found himself agreeing. Because of his training under Rodrik Cassel, despite Robb being better with lance than he was, Jon knew that anyone who was a skilled rider would have a good start in jousting. And Lyanna, if Howland was to be believed, had also had some training in combat, so Jon didn’t think that it was completely unbelievable that the Knight _could_ have been his mother.

“But also, what happened afterwards made us sure it was her,” Howland continued. “A few days later, when Rhaegar defeated Ser Barristan Selmy in the final joust, he named Lyanna the new queen of love and beauty, by placing a crown of blue winter roses in her lap.”

“Blue roses?” Dany said suddenly, drawing all attention to her.

Jon met her gaze, and saw both recognition and understanding blazing behind her violet eyes.

“When I was in the House of the Undying, I saw many visions,” Dany explained, looking between all who were present. “One of them was of a blue rose, growing from a chink in a wall of ice.”

As she said this, her and Jon’s eyes met once more, and he felt his mouth drop open, his mind racing.

“At the time, you would have been at the Wall,” Dany explained, and Jon nodded dimly.

Jon met Howland’s eye and saw his expression change from shock at Dany’s words to realisation as he grasped the meaning behind them, a smile spreading across his face.

“Well, it would seem that vision was showing you Jon, and the secret of his parentage, although you didn’t know it.”

Jon met Dany’s eye again, and he could see that her expression of stunned disbelief mirrored his own feelings. While Jon had managed to accept Bran’s abilities, even if he couldn’t fathom how he did them, the idea that Dany could have had visions about him, before she had even known of his existence, was hard for him comprehend.

Luckily for him, Jon was saved from these confused thoughts by Howland continuing his story.

“Before the Tourney, Rhaegar and Lyanna had never met each other. But, while it is not completely impossible to think that he could have done so purely on meeting her at the tourney, both Eddard and I agree that it makes a lot more sense that they would meet while Rhaegar was sent to hunt down the Knight of the Laughing Tree.”

Jon nodded in response, finding himself agreeing with Howland’s argument. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sansa nodding too, although her face had a conflicted look covering it. Jon could sense and understand the reason for it, as everything that they had been told about their aunt was being proven wrong.

“And then, around a year later, Lyanna disappeared, seemingly kidnapped by Rhaegar. And, during this time, she would have fallen pregnant with you.”

The silence that filled the room at this was almost painful, with only the crackling of the various fires throughout the room being the only sounds that could be heard. Jon lowered his head to the table, shaking his head. The more he heard about the circumstance around Lyanna’s disappearance, the more he didn’t like it.

While he now had no doubt that they both loved each other, he couldn’t hide his distaste for the fact that by running off together, Rhaegar and Lyanna had caused a war that would claim the lives of thousands of people.

“This set-in motion the events that led to Robert’s Rebellion,” continued Howland, as if reading his mind. “For most of the war, Rhaegar was nowhere to be found. It wasn’t until Aerys sent Ser Gerold Hightower to find him that Rhaegar finally entered the war, leading the royal army at the Battle of the Trident.

“After the capital was taken, and Robert Baratheon on the throne, Eddard and I headed south, to where Rhaegar had spent the majority of the war. At a place that he called the Tower of Joy.”

Howland paused again, and Jon could see him steeling himself once more. Luckily Jon had heard a lot about what happened at the Tower from Bran. However, he wanted to hear it again, to get Howland’s view, not only on the events that transpired there but also Eddard’s thoughts on them, something that Bran could not share.

“When I entered the tower, I found Eddard holding you Jon, and Lyanna was… Lyanna was gone.”

As he said this, Jon felt a wave of emotion overcome him. While he had known about Lyanna’s death for a long time, this was the first time that he had heard the story of it since learning that she was his mother.

It was a strange feeling, consisting of both sadness, but also an emptiness. Knowing that he should mourn her loss, but also not having the full knowledge of just _what_ he had lost, not only his mother but also the role that she could have played in his life, the man he could have been if she had been there to guide him.

Jon’s thoughts were interrupted when he felt Dany’s hand close over his wrist. As he turned to her, he could see that she was keeping her eyes facing ahead, not drawing attention to the gesture, something that Jon was grateful for.

“Eddard was devastated by her death and he barely spoke, for the longest time. The only words that he said was in naming you, after his old friend Jon Arryn, and to order the Tower of Joy to be torn down, in order to bury the dead properly.

“When he did speak again, the first thing he told me was of the promise that he had made to your mother as she died, to keep you safe. And he did, for the rest of his life.”

“But why didn’t he say anything, to me or to Lady Catelyn?” Jon said, asking the question that he had wanted answering the most. “The last time I saw him, when I left for the Wall, he told me that the next time we met, he would tell me about my mother. But why didn’t he say anything sooner? We could have kept the secret.”

“He couldn’t take the chance that anyone would find out, Jon. Besides, you knew Lady Catelyn better than I did. I only met her a handful of times. If she had known your true parentage, would she have treated you differently? Probably. But wouldn’t that have raised suspicions, her being so kind to someone who was, in the eyes of everyone else, her husband’s bastard son, fathered while they were married?”

While Jon couldn’t argue with the logic behind these words, he still found it hard that Eddard had never shared the truth, or had never had the _chance_ to. Jon thought back to the moment where he and Eddard had bid each other goodbye, with him heading to the Wall and his uncle to King’s Landing, and the promise that he had made.

Would he actually have told him about Rhaegar and Lyanna, once he was at the Wall, safely away from the wrath of Robert Baratheon? Jon was sure that he would, and, when he thought about more he understood the reason why Eddard had chosen _then_ to tell him.

By taking the Night’s Watch vows, he would relinquish any rights that he would have to the Iron Throne, further protecting him from Robert Baratheon.

A right to the throne that Jon didn’t want.

Ever since he had learned of his parentage, Jon knew that he _could_ have mounted a challenge to the throne, as the sole surviving child of Rhaegar Targaryen, the Crown Prince. But he couldn’t think of any situation in which he would pursue this.

He had never asked to be the Lord Commander, no more than he’d asked to be named the King in the North, and he had absolutely no desire to the Iron Throne. Not least because it would put him in conflict with Dany, something that he had even less desire for.

“I can also tell you your true name, if you wish, Jon.” Howland offered kindly, causing Jon to start, having lost himself in his thoughts.

“No, thank you, Lord Reed,” Jon replied. “I already know it.”

This caused a look of shock and surprise to spread across Howland’s face, and Jon couldn’t suppress a smile.

“Bran told me,” Jon explained. “But my friend Samwell found a document at the Citadel, telling of Rhaegar and Lyanna’s marriage and the birth of their child, Jaehaerys.”

Howland’s look of shock instantly turned to worry and, if Jon was reading his expression correctly, panic.

“We destroyed it,” Jon interrupted quickly, raising a placating hand. “Now no-one will know.”

Howland nodded, now looking relieved. After a moment, however, he began looking a Jon curiously.

“You seem very keen to distance yourself from Rhaegar, Jon,” Howland said. “Forgive me if I am wrong but, from the look on your face earlier when I was speaking about him, you seem almost to despise him.”

“No,” Jon replied, shaking his head, trying desperately to understand the complicated feelings that he had towards Rhaegar. “It isn’t hate that I have towards him, it is more anger and disappointment.”

Jon felt Dany turn to him and, with a little trepidation, returned her gaze. While the confusion that he had expected was there, he had also expected her to look at him with anger. Rhaegar was her brother after all. But she was not. Her confused expression was tinged with what seemed to be understanding, which only served to make Jon confused himself.

“And it isn’t just towards Rhaegar either,” Jon continued, returning his gaze back to Howland. “Both he and my mother should have known, or at least suspected, that there would be consequences when they left together, how it would look. Tensions were already high at that time, their actions at the Tourney clearly didn’t help.

“It just feels very selfish and short-sighted of them,” Jon concluded, and was relieved to see Dany nodding her agreement to his side, explaining her understanding look.

“I agree,” she said. “Rhaegar might have been my brother, but this decision seems very unwise, even foolish.”

“I would agree,” Howland echoed, although at this point Jon was barely listening.

He was too busy still trying to unravel his thoughts surrounding Rhaegar. Ever since learning the truth he had been busy trying understand his feelings towards and about his mother, a figure that he’d never had, a hole that had never been filled, that he hadn’t really thought about his father.

Because he’d always had one.

He had always regarded Eddard as his father, and still did, so he didn’t feel the same sadness at the loss of Rhaegar as he did with Lyanna. And yet there was a sense of curiosity at what kind of man he actually was and not the stories that he had been told his whole life.

Jon returned his attention to Howland, who was observing him with a strange expression on his face. Jon frowned slightly, confused about what he was thinking now.

“This document that you had been given,” Howland said, as he rose from his seat and waked over to a small desk set against the wall. “It gave proof of your Targaryen legitimacy.”

Jon’s curiosity and confusion increased even further as Howland turned back to the table and made his way back over, a scroll of parchment in his hand.

“I have a similar one,” he continued cryptically, as he stopped near Jon and held the scroll out to him. “From your brother, Robb.”

Jon’s breath caught in his throat and his heart jumped at these words. He shared a perplexed look at Sansa, who looked just as shocked and baffled by these words as he was.

Jon reached out and, with a slight tremble to his hand, took the scroll. Feeling a sad jolt in his gut at the sight of the direwolf sigil in the wax seal, he broke it open and unfurled it. After a second, more intense pang in his gut as he recognised Robb’s hand on the parchment, he read it through, his mouth dropping open and his heart hammering faster and faster the further down the page he got.

“I was given this by Galbart Glover and Maege Mormont,” Howland explained, as he retook his seat. “Robb sent them with his orders to help attack Moat Cailin. However, shortly after they left to re-join your brother, and before the plan could be put into action, we received word of the Red Wedding, and the deaths of all who were there.

“They left this here though, safer here than on themselves or in their own keeps.”

Jon had reached the end of the letter and sat staring at Robb’s signature at the bottom, completely at a loss to comprehend what he had just read.

“Jon?” Sansa said, as she gripped his forearm, sounding concerned. “Jon, what is it?”

“It’s-” he began hoarsely, his mouth and throat completely dry. After taking a swig of his ale, he began again.

“It’s Robb’s will,” Jon said, handing it to Sansa for her to read. “He legitimised me in the event of his death, and made me his heir.”

“So, now you are Jon Stark,” Howland said, with a small smirk.

_The thing that I have always wanted_ , Jon thought. _When I had given it up._

Feeling Sansa’s hand on his arm again, Jon turned to look at her and saw that she was smiling at him as she handed it back to him.

“I’ve been telling you that you’re a Stark for a while now, and now you are one,” Sansa said, her smile widening.

Jon returned her smile, quickly glancing at Tormund, who shrugged briefly. Jon had to suppress a chuckle at this, knowing that a last name meant nothing to Tormund. Jon turned his head to his other side, meeting Dany’s eye.

While he was pleased to see her encouraging smile towards him, he could also see a sense of sadness on her face. Jon knew better than most about Dany’s longing for a family, and that there was probably a part of her that had been hoping that he would have taken the Targaryen name.

“I’ll need to tell the Northern lords,” Jon said, as his eyes fell into the words once more. “Before I make a decision.”

“Why?” Tormund said, looking and sounding confused. “The message is from your brother. Why not just do it now?”

“I could,” Jon explained patiently, aware of Tormund’s lack of knowledge of how lords and kings should act. “But it could cause resentment for making such a huge decision without telling them first. I may be their king but, in their eyes, I am still just a bastard. It could be seen as me trying to legitimise myself without any challenge.”

Tormund merely shrugged in response and Jon merely chuckling softly in response, knowing that Tormund neither understood nor cared to.

Jon turned back to Howland Reed, and nodded his thanks, as he carefully curled Robb’s scroll and placed into a pouch on his belt.

“Thank you for your time, Lord Reed,” Jon said. “You have given me a lot to think about.”

“I can imagine,” Reed replied, chuckling. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Your Grace?”

“No,” Jon replied, as he rose from his seat and offered his hand to him. “Thank you, my lord.”

However, as the two men shook hands, Jon was struck by a sudden thought.

“Actually, yes,” Jon said, as Howland rose to his feet, causing the man to frown slightly in surprise. “Yes, there is something more that you can do for me, my lord.”

Jon paused for a moment, thinking of how best to phrase his request, knowing about the crannogmen’s tendency to remain in the Neck.

“As I’m sure you know, my lord, we are heading south to war against the Lannisters.”

“And as I’m sure _you_ know, Your Grace, we crannogmen don’t involve ourselves in such matters,” Howland replied, politely but firmly.

“I do, and that was not what I was asking.”

Reed became even more visibly confused at this. Jon took a deep breath before continuing.

“When we head back north, we _will_ need your men and they _will_ need to fight. The Long Night is almost upon us, my lord, and we will need every man and woman to help repel the Night King and his army.”

There was a long silence at his words, so long that Jon was becoming a little concerned, before Reed responded.

“And you will have them,” he said, nodding his head. “Meera has told me of all that she had seen while she was with your brother, north of the Wall. Even if I didn’t believe you, I believe her.

“My men will be there, along with all of our reserves of pitch. From what Meera tells me, the army of the dead is destroyed by fire, so it could be useful.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Jon said gratefully, extending his hand once more.

“Meera will head back to Winterfell as soon as she is able, to let your brother know to expect our men as well when you return north.”

Jon smiled slightly at this, knowing at that a raven would be just as efficient at delivering this message, but aware that this decision was more about Meera re-joining Bran than it was about delivering the message.

“Very good, my lord,” Jon said, as the two men ended their handshake. “Thank you for your time and honesty, Lord Reed. I am very grateful.”

“No problem at all, Your Grace,” Howland said, as he guided them back through the dim hallways of the keep towards the door. “I am glad that I could answer some of your questions surrounding your birth, and also deliver to you one of your brother’s final acts.”

At this, Jon’s hand unconsciously grasped the small pouch in which Robb’s will sat, still a little unbelieving that Robb had chosen him to be his heir, something that Jon was sure that Lady Catelyn wouldn’t have approved of.

As Howland Reed bid them farewell, and Meera began to guide them back through them back towards their horses, Jon allowed himself to succumb to his thoughts once more, thinking of Rhaegar, Lyanna and Robb.

*

The following morning, before they began their days march, Jon summoned all of the Northern lords together. As he looked around at the assembled faces, he could see that they were all looking both curious and surprised at being summoned together like this, a look that only increased when Jon had explained that it was a matter of some importance.

Once the lords had all gathered, Jon took a deep breath and rose to his feet. He took a quick look around and found Sansa, who was smiling at him encouragingly, and Dany, with the same look on her face.

“My lords and ladies,” Jon said, looking from face to face. “As you know, I went to speak to Lord Howland Reed last night. After we spoke of the crannogmen joining us in our fight against the Night King, he gave me this.”

As Jon pulled out the scroll of parchment and held it aloft for all to see, he swallowed down the bitter taste of another lie. While he hated keeping it a secret, Jon knew, especially after speaking to Howland Reed, that it was for the best to keep it from everyone, at least for the time being. Revealing it now would only distract from the war effort, _both_ of them, and they would be unprepared for the Night King.

_No,_ Jon thought, as he passed Robb’s will onto Lord Manderly. _I may hate this, but it is for the best._

As Manderly began to read, Jon turned and began to address the rest.

“This is Robb Stark’s will,” he said loudly, a hush fell over the lords, all eyes either focused on Jon or the small piece of parchment being passed between them. “One of his last acts before his death at the Red Wedding. The will states that my brother legitimised me and named me as his heir in the event of his death.

“Many of you here either served under my brother at some point during the War of the Five Kings, or have at the least received messages from him and recognise his signature at the bottom. So, you know that this document is not a fake, and did indeed come from Robb.”

Jon then fell silent, watching as the small scroll passed from hand to hand, and the lords looks turned from interest to realisation and shock. Jon locked eyes with Dany again, with Grey Worm and Jorah Mormont standing at either shoulder. Her wide smile and reassuring nod helped to steel Jon’s resolve.

While he had wanted to be a Stark all of his life, he had always felt like he had never been truly deserving of it. Being a bastard and, now that his parentage had been revealed to him, his Targaryen blood both felt like an obstacle to him. But seeing Dany’s encouragement, and hearing Sansa’s declaration that he could now be a true Stark, that she _wanted_ it to be so, that urge was reawakened within him.

The scroll passed around the large group in a surprisingly short time. Jon looked between the expectant faces, waiting for one of them to speak. When none did, Jon took a deep breath and continued.

“My lords, I know that I am a bastard, and that the legitimisation of a bastard doesn’t happen often, but-”

“Your Grace,” came Lord Manderly’s voice from behind Jon, making him start. “I apologise for the interruption but I, and I think that I speak for everyone present, do not need to be convinced that you deserve to be legitimised.”

Manderly paused and Jon heard a round of murmured assent pass through the crowd. Jon looked around him and found his eyes drawn to Lady Lyanna Mormont, sat near the front of the crowd. Upon catching his eye, the fiery young lady grimly nodded to him.

“I agree with Lord Manderly,” she called, as she rose herself from her seat. “Jon Snow has proved himself a Stark many times over. He rallied an army and retook the North when half of the North didn’t support him. Since becoming our king he has gained our independence and gained us a valuable ally against Cersei and the White Walkers.”

“Lady Mormont speaks truly!” Manderly called, over an outbreak of agreement.

“Jon,” came Sansa’s voice, finding its way above the noises of the crowd, which quietened upon hearing her voice.

“I said this already, at Greywater Watch, but it is important for you to know. To me you are already were one, but it would be an honour for you to finally become a Stark.”

Jon smiled back at his sister as the lords sounded their agreement at her words.

Finally making his decision, Jon smiled.

“Thank you, Sansa,” he said, nodding towards her gratefully before turning to the other lords. “And thank you all my lords, for your support. While I am not sure that I am worthy of such an honour, I cannot deny my brother one of his last wishes.”

There was the sound of a sword scraping against its scabbard and Jon turned to see Lord Manderly unsheathing his blade, before bending the knee once more.

“I have pledged myself to you already,” he said, as he bowed his head. “But I would do so again now, to Jon Stark, the King in the North!”

“Jon Stark!” came the voices of a dozen Northern lords, accompanied by the scraping of blades and the sounds of chairs being pushed back as they all bent the knee at once.

Jon stood there stunned, listening to dozens of people calling out his new name, joined by countless more when the noise from their group reached the soldiers, still preparing for their march south, his name echoing through the still morning air.

_Thank you, Robb,_ Jon thought, as the collective voice of thousands continued to shout his name. _I promise I’ll do you proud, brother._


	33. Bran III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone. Thank you for your patience while wating for the chapter. I hope you all enjoy it.  
> A quick note before you all start. I planned this fic out in around November last year, before I had read the leaks. So it was a little surreal while writing this as *MINOR SPOILER ALERT* I had written in an Arya sparring scene, just not with Brienne.  
> Another thing to point out is that my interpretation of Bran is not as all-seeing and all-knowing as show Bran is, so he will feel pretty underpowered compared to what we have seen this season, so apologies for that.  
> In other news, I have all this week off from work so hopefully (*fingers crossed*) I'll have the next chapter up for you before I go back to work next Tuesday. Next up will be a Dany chapter.

              

Bran

 

Bran was standing outside the walls of Winterfell, feeling a thick covering of snow underneath his feet. He knew immediately that he was in a vision, having remembered going to sleep that night. The feeling of being on his feet no longer filled him with the joy that it had once his visions had begun, when he had believed himself doomed to remain in a chair all his life. But he had spent so much time in his visions lately, almost as much as he did in the present, that the experience felt natural to him now.

As Bran looked around him, taking in the familiar sight, he did marvel at one feeling that he had about his visions that refused to go away.

The feeling of being in amongst events, watching them as though he were there, but not being able to interact with it. As he stood there in the snow, he knew that his feet should feel cold, that he should feel the snowflakes fall onto his bare skin, the wind on his face.

But he felt none of them.

It was an incredibly surreal feeling, being a part of the events but also separated from them.

Bran looked around him and saw that he wasn’t alone. In the shadow of the keep, there were hundreds of people standing there, their bodies all merging together to form a large black mass that covered the snowy ground. Bran looked from face to face, hoping to recognise any of them.

While there were a few that he recognised, being several prominent lords of the North that he had seen since his childhood, the vast majority of them were just shadows, blending into their bodies until the faces he could see stood out like the stars in the night sky.

However, before he could look more closely, the sound of loud, mocking laughter filled his ears, and he turned towards the source. There was a tall man with long brown hair standing under a standard of three white hills with a star above them, his head back as he laughed.

Bran only just recognised the sigil as the standard of House Whitehill when he heard a cry of fury and another man, this time with dark hair and in Northern garb, lunged at the man and tackled him to the ground.

As the northerner began to repeatedly punch the Whitehill’s face, the sounds of the blows landing filling the air, Bran looked down and let out a gasp of horror.

The snow was stained red with blood.     

Just as Bran was about to follow the blood, to see where it came from, he heard the Whitehill give a cry of pain. As Bran turned back to the two men, and the dark-haired man got back to his feet, he recoiled slightly when he saw the bloody mess of the Whitehill’s face, his eyes swollen shut and bleeding from the nose and mouth.

There was a brief pause, although to Bran it seemed like a lifetime, before the Northerner drew his blade.

A Valyrian blade with a white wolf pommel.

Bran’s breathing quickened at the sight as he watched Jon plunge the blade down into the man’s throat, a horrible gargling sound filling the air as the man’s severed windpipe flooded with blood.

Bran stood there completely horrified, his heart hammering inside his chest as he watched the Whitehill man die, with Jon standing over him, his shoulders heaving in time with his deep breaths, as he gripped hold of his blood-covered blade.

As the life left the man’s eyes, what little of them showed through the bloodied and swollen flesh around them, Jon sheathed his blade and turned away from the body…

And Bran gasped once more.

Jon’s face was contorted with rage and grief, so much so that it looked like he was in physical agony. Bran could even see tears in his eyes, and glistening tracks where they had begun to trickle down his cheeks.

_Something terrible must have happened,_ Bran realised, as he gazed helplessly as the sorrow on his brother’s face.

As Bran turned his head once more, to find the source of the blood…

His eyes opened and he found himself laying on his bed at Winterfell, gazing at the ceiling of his darkened room. As his breathing slowed down, Bran bunched his hands into fists on his sheets, frustrated that he didn’t get to see any more.

While he was tempted to go to the godswood and use the weirwood tree to try to see more, he also knew that it was unlikely to work. While Bran had advanced his skills considerably with practise, one of the facets of his abilities that had always been the most complex was his glimpses of the future, with the visions being the vaguest and most confusing that he had.

His glimpse of the Ironborn occupation of Winterfell was the first that came to Bran’s mind and, while this vision was far clearer, thanks in no small part to his hours of training, it was no less puzzling to him.

Bran was sure that he knew the reason why. He remembered back to when he was training under the Three-Eyed Raven and had the first vision of the events at the Tower of Joy. Bran had been convinced that his father had heard his shout, and had turned back in response, but the Raven had cast doubt upon his suspicions.

“ _The past is already written. The ink is dry.”_

While he could see and experience the past so easily because of this, events that had already happened, it made his infrequent glimpses into the future look blurry by comparison. And Bran was sure that his vision was exactly that. Between Jon being outside Winterfell and the Whitehill soldier being his enemy, Bran was sure that this event would come to pass.

_But how? And why?_ Bran wondered.

Bran thought back to the Whitehills, holed up at Highpoint, the seat of their house, surrounded by not only Northmen but also a hundred Unsullied soldiers that Daenerys that had left before their march south.

_How would one of them be at Winterfell?_ Bran thought, as he rubbed his forehead. _A prisoner of war?_

This thought made Bran feel even more uneasy. While he knew that Jon had executed his captured enemies before, with his execution of the Night’s Watch mutineers who had assassinated him being the thing that came to mind, it was the method of the execution that troubled him.

From their teachings from Father, and from the glimpses of his brother’s actions during their time apart, Bran knew that Jon’s executions were always quick and relatively painless, either beheading or hanging.

_This time, it was different,_ Bran thought, as he remembered the gargling sound of the man’s dying breaths and the look of fury on Jon’s face. _He killed that man out of anger._

Bran buried his face in his face, trying to make sense of what he had seen. Instinctively he reached out for Meera, to gain some comfort in her presence and hopefully an ear to hear all of his thoughts and theories. But as his hand found the empty space beside him, his heart sinking as he did so, he remembered that she had left Winterfell to return home.

Swallowing down his sadness, Bran returned to his thoughts, this time dwelling on the Whitehills. It had two weeks or so since the men had left for Highpoint. They had received a raven a few days later, informing them of their arrival and the successful implementation of the siege.

But there had been no word since, at least to Bran’s knowledge.

That gave him an uneasy feeling, one that he couldn’t explain to himself. From what Lord Glover had told them, the Whitehills had around three hundred of their own men, in addition to a further hundred from House Warwick, at their command.

The five hundred Northmen, mainly comprised of men from Houses Karstark and Umber, as a way for them to show if their renewed loyalty to House Stark was genuine, with another hundred Unsullied, should have been enough to either take Highpoint outright or to successful place a siege in place and starve them out. But, while Jon had predicted a lengthy siege, Bran felt that there should have been more word from their forces by now, for good or ill.       

Bran sighed deeply, as he laid his arms down by his sides, knowing that he could get nowhere by simply mulling over these thoughts in his mind. After calming his mind, Bran relaxed himself and, despite his wishes to see more about these events, fell into a deep, visionless sleep.

*

Later that morning, after Bran had broken his fast with Arya, who was throwing him curious looks over his silence and occupied look, he went to the maester’s tower to speak with Wolkan. As his wheeled chair was pushed through the courtyard, and he felt the snowflakes on his face, Bran looked up and saw several ravens flying overhead.

His curiosity was burning in his chest and it was only the fact that he was being pushed by a Stark guardsman that stopped him from warging into them and flying them to Highpoint to see for himself.

_Maybe later_ , Bran thought, as the ravens flew from the keep, out of sight.

When they reached the tower, the Stark man who had been pushing Bran called out to another, who had been patrolling the courtyard with a third, to give them a hand. One man carried Bran up the winding staircase, which seemed a lot narrower than it had in his childhood, while the other carried up his wheeled chair.

As the door opened into the maester’s tower, a smile spread over Bran’s face as he took in the familiar room. He saw the vast bookshelves that he remembered still lining the stone walls, groaning under countless large tomes and various glasses of mixtures and herbs that were stood on them. As he was placed back in his chair, and the Stark men left the room, Bran turned his head to take in the sights and relived the memories as they flooded back into his mind.

He remembered all of his hours of learning in this room, sat at the dark oak table opposite Maester Luwin as the elderly man would grab a thick, dusty tome from one of the bookshelves and would teach him. Bran remembered the maester’s lessons now, about the histories of Westeros, way back from what is known about the Age of Heroes and all the way up to more recent history, like Aegon’s Conquest and the failed Blackfyre Rebellions. 

As he recalled these memories, Bran felt a rush of loss as he remembered Luwin, the kindly old man who had always been there to counsel him whenever he needed it, no matter how stern he occasionally was in regards to Bran’s studies.  

“Prince Bran,” came a voice, breaking his concentration.

Bran still found it strange to think of himself as a prince. While he knew that it was true, now that Jon was King in the North, like Robb before him, it was still something that he wasn’t that used to. Not least because for the majority of Robb’s reign, Bran was either a captive of the Ironborn at Winterfell or heading North after escaping from their clutches.

He turned towards the voice and saw maester Wolkan entering the room from a second door, that Bran knew led to the Rookery above.

“Maester Wolkan,” Bran replied, bowing his head politely.

“How may I help you?” Wolkan asked, as he walked over to him.

Bran paused for a moment, looking around the room once more, taking it all in.

“It has been a while since I’ve been in this room,” Bran said quietly, almost to himself. “The last time I was here…”

“Was with Maester Luwin?” Wolkan finished helpfully, after Bran’s voice tailed off as he fell into his thoughts once more.

Bran turned to the maester, as the man took a seat opposite him and gave him a warm smile.

“I’ve heard a lot about him,” Wolkan said, clearly in answer to Bran’s puzzled look. “Not only from those here at Winterfell, but also from my time at the Citadel. He sounded like a great man.”

Bran nodded his agreement and smiled.

“How are you finding your time at Winterfell, maester Wolkan?” Bran asked.

Wolkan paused for a moment, clearly thinking hard.

“At first, I didn’t much enjoy it,” Wolkan confessed. “While I was still serving Ramsay, this place felt as dark and foreboding at the Dreadfort was, with all the horrific acts that he did here, to your sister and who knows how many others.

“But since your brother and sister retook it and the Starks returned to their home, I must say I _am_ enjoying being here.”

Wolkan nodded, seemingly to himself, before looking Bran in the eye.

“It feels good to advise a family that actually _deserves_ it for once.”

Bran smiled at these words, although his mind was running with questions.

_What must it have been like to have to advise the Boltons, without any choice in the matter? Having to stand by and watch and hear about all their treason and horrific acts._

Taking a deep breath, Bran refocused himself on the reason for his visit.

“I was wondering if you could advise _me_ , maester Wolkan.”

“It would be my honour, Prince Bran,” the maester replied, bowing his head.

“Have we received any word from our forces at Highpoint?” Bran asked, although a part of him felt like he knew what the answer would be.

“The only raven we have received was from when they arrived,” Wolkan said, confirming Bran’s suspicions.

“Don’t you think that we should have heard something from them by now?” Bran asked, trying to sound more curious than outright concerned.

“Sieges are complicated matters, my prince,” Wolkan replied, with a sage look on his face that made Bran sure that the maester could see his concerns. “But it could be that things are not as worrisome as they appear to be. It could simply be that our forces have no real news to give us, as the Whitehills and their men could still be encamped within Highpoint.”

Bran turned to look out of the window at the falling snow, lost in thought for a moment. While he could see the logic of what Wolkan was saying, there was a part of him that _knew_ that there must be more to this. The same part of him that knew that when he saw the sea come to Winterfell, drowning Ser Rodrik and many others, that something terrible would happen.

Once more, Bran felt the same sense of helplessness that he’d felt before, where he would struggle to get people to understand the magnitude of what his visions could mean. In this case, Wolkan wasn’t aware of his abilities at all, which was a secret shared only among the Stark siblings and only a few trusted others, so Bran would first have to explain everything about what he was able to do before he could get the maester to fully understand how serious this _could_ be.

However, there was someone in Winterfell that he _could_ speak to, who would understand better than others what he was talking about, and what it could mean.

Bran nodded as he turned to look back at Wolkan, who was watching him intently, clearly curious at what was going through his head.

“Thank you for your counsel, maester Wolkan,” Bran said, smiling at him. “You have put my mind to rest.”

At this Wolkan’s face was covered in a wide smile, which made Bran feel a pang of guilt, wishing that his words could be true.

“It is my honour, Prince Bran,” the man said, bowing his head.

“Could you fetch the guard for me, please?” Bran asked, as he patted the padded arms of his wheeled chair. “The one and only problem with this chair that you built for me is that I still cannot use the stairs.”

“Of course,” Wolkan replied, as he rose from his seat and headed towards the door.

Once the man was out of sight, Bran sighed deeply and buried his face in his hands. He had hoped that a visit to Wolkan might have alleviated his fears, that there had been a raven announcing the capture of the Whitehills, that there was no chance that they could come to Winterfell unless it was in chains.

Soon the door opened once more and the same two guards that had brought him in re-entered the room, with Wolkan following behind. As the men carried both him and his chair from the room, Bran gave the room another final look and a nod to Wolkan as he was carried down the winding stairs once more.

As they exited the tower into the courtyard once more, the chilly air biting into his face after the warmth of the interior, Bran turned his head towards the guard who had been pushing him around.

“I need to speak to my sister,” Bran said. “We may have to look around for her.”

“Of course, my prince,” the man said, as he began to push Bran forward.

They had only been looking for a few minutes when another guardsman came running over to them.

“Prince Bran,” the man panted. “Lady Meera Reed has just arrived at the gate.”

Bran broke into a wide smile at these words, hardly daring to believe his ears, completely forgetting about his reasons for finding Arya and his worries over the Whitehills. Turning his head towards the man pushing him, Bran beckoned for him to follow this new man.

As they came within sight of the gate, Bran’s smile widened even further, with him letting out an involuntary laugh of relief and happiness.

Meera was standing just inside the gate, her bushy hair and the thick cloak wrapped around her shoulders flecked with snow. As they got closer to her, Meera turned towards them and, upon locking eyes with Bran, her face broke into a warm smile that made Bran stomach jolt.

Meera’s patience was apparently short as she didn’t wait from the guardsman to push Bran even half of the way towards her before she began striding over towards him, her wide smile growing even more apparent the closer she became.

Before long she closed the gap between them and threw her arms around him, the guardsman stopping his chair and backing away a few steps to give them some privacy.

Bran gripped her back just as tightly, feeling her bushy hair tickling his face. While he had missed her since the moment she had left, it was only now, as Bran felt the warmth of her in his arms and breathed in the smell of her hair, that he realised just how much. Not only for the help and support that she provided while he had his visions but also just for her, as she meant a lot more to Bran than just as a way to comfort him with his visions.

As they let go of each other, with Meera standing back up to her full height and smiling down at him, Bran finally found his voice again.

“You’re back,” he said, rather obviously.

Meera chuckled slightly at this, with Bran inwardly cursing at his awkwardness.

“I am, Bran,” she said, moving to stand beside him and placing her hand on his shoulder. “And I will be staying for a while. My father will be sending as many fighting men as we can muster, as well as our reserves of pitch, to help battle the Night King. They will ride back north when Jon and his forces return from the South.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Bran said, with a wide smile on his face. “Did Jon go to see your father?”

“He did,” Meera replied, her smiling fading slightly, to be replaced by a look of deep thought. “They had a long discussion.”

As she said this, Bran saw her eyes dart to the Stark man who was still standing a few paces behind them, clearly waiting for the signal to resume pushing the chair. Recognising the need to speak to Meera without being overheard, Bran beckoned the man over.

“Could you push my chair over these?” Bran asked, indicating to a secluded corner of the courtyard, well away from curious ears. “Lady Meera and I would like to speak privately.”

“At once, my prince,” the man said, as he immediately followed Bran’s command.

Once the two of them were in the place that Bran had indicated, the Stark man backed away considerably, so that nobody could hear their conversation.

“’My Prince?’” Meera said, looking at him and smirking.

“It is still a little strange,” Bran admitted, nodding.

Bran then turned back to Meera and looked her in the eye.

“So… Jon and your father.”

“Yes, Jon and my father did speak at length about what they know about Jon’s parentage,” Meera explained, in a hushed voice despite their privacy.

“How did Jon find it?” Bran asked, a little concerned.

“You could see for yourself, remember?” Meera replied teasingly, smiling slightly.

“I’ve had… other things on my mind,” Bran said, as the thoughts of his vision from the night before came back unbidden into his mind, along with all of the fears and doubts.

Meera’s smile instantly vanished at this.

“You’ve had another vision,” she stated, without a hint of a question. “What have you seen that has you so worried?”

“I only had it last night,” Bran replied quickly, who, despite his worries and speculation over what the vision might mean, couldn’t help but marvel at the way that Meera could immediately sense his concerns. “Mostly I’ve just been busy training, so I haven’t had time to check in on Jon and Sansa, despite wanting too.”

“Bran…” Meera said, her voice low and worried.

Bran, wishing to bring her some comfort and reassurance in return for all time that she had given the same to him, reached out and took her hand in his, feeling her grip his tightly in response.

“I _will_ tell you about the vision,” Bran promised, nodding solemnly. “I promise. But I _need_ to know, Meera. How are Jon and Sansa?”

“They’re fine, Bran,” Meera said comfortingly. “Jon seemed a little shaken with what my father told him about his mother and father, but he seemed fine.”

_That is to be expected,_ thought Bran. _Finding out whatever it is that Howland knows about Rhaegar and Lyanna has got to be a shock for him._

As Bran began to lose himself in wondering just _what_ Howland could have told Jon, Meera spoke again, instantly bringing his attention to her.

“But I think that it was the letter from your brother that shocked him the most.”

“What letter?” Bran asked, his curiosity about this overpowering his thoughts about Jon’s parentage or his vision.

“Your brother Robb’s will,” Meera explained sadly. “He made it shortly before his death and sent it with several of his men when they visited my father. It says that he legitimised Jon in the event of his death.

“He is now Jon Stark,” Meera finished, with a smile back upon her face.

Bran let out a shocked laugh, feeling both happiness for Jon and surprise at this development.

_But_ , Bran thought, as he dwelled on it. _It would make sense. At the time, both Rickon and I were considered dead, at Theon’s hands. Sansa was a captive of the Lannisters and Arya hadn’t been seen since the death of Father, and would have been presumed dead._

_Jon would have made the most sense, although I’m sure that Mother wouldn’t have cared for Robb’s choice._

As he thought this, Bran felt a renewed feeling of sadness over the way that his mother had treated Jon during his time at Winterfell. Not only for Jon, although he was a large part of it, but Bran also knew that if his mother had known the truth about Jon, she would not have treated him with the scorn and vitriol that she had done, and would have welcomed him as a true member of the household.

Bran mentally shook himself, not wanting to lose his concentration into imagining what _could_ have been.

“Jon Stark,” Bran said, shaking his head in disbelief, with a wide smile on his face. “It is what he has always wanted.”

Meera nodded at his words, but Bran could see that the concerned look was back on her face. Feeling that this was the best time to tell her, given what they had just discussed, Bran reached out and grasped hold of her hand once more, that he had released while they were talking.

“I promised that I would tell you about the vision,” Bran said, seeing her stiffen slightly at his words.

Taking a deep breath, Bran explained everything about what he had seen in his sleep, from the crowd gathering outside of Winterfell’s wall to the look of grief and rage on Jon’s face as he killed the Whitehill man. As he spoke, Bran watched her face, which merely registered shock at the events he spoke of with, as usual, no hint of disbelief or distrust in her expression.

When he finished his story, Meera remained quiet for a moment, clearly thinking hard. After a moment, she reached out and gripped his forearm.

“And you think that the Whitehills are going to come here,” she said softly.

“Yes,” Bran replied, happy that she understood his fear. “And the majority of the fighting men have gone south with Jon. If I send too many more from Winterfell then it will leave us unguarded from an attack.

“I was thinking of warging into a raven and flying to Highpoint to see for myself what is happening.”

“You’ll have to be careful Bran, if you do choose to do that. What if the raven gets shot down by one side, thinking that it is carrying a message for the other? Would you wake up, or would you be trapped in the body as it dies, leaving your actual body without your mind?”

Bran remained silent for a moment, contemplating the horrific implication of that scenario. However, this was a question that he had asked himself several times since he’d learned of his abilities, even asking the Three Eyed Raven once while he had been training Bran. While the Raven had been characteristically vague, leaving Bran as confused as he had been initially.

However, Bran could guess at the outcome, based on what both the Raven and Jojen had said about remaining in a body for too long. If remaining in a body for too long could prove dangerous for Bran, then he could certainly imagine the consequence if the body that he had warged into died.

While Bran wasn’t completely sure that this _was_ what would happen, he wasn’t confident or curious enough in the outcome to risk it.

“What does Arya think?” Meera asked, breaking his concentration.

“I haven’t told her yet,” Bran replied, his mind still running. “I was just looking for her when you arrived.”

“Let’s see what she thinks first,” Meera reasoned. “She might have a better idea than you warging your way there and maybe risking your life to find out.”

Bran nodded his agreement, before turning and beckoning the Stark man over once more.

“We need to carry on trying to find my sister,” Bran said.

The man nodded his understanding and immediately began to push him once more, causing Bran to have a feeling of guilt for having to order this man to push him all over the keep at the moment’s notice.

However, luckily, it didn’t take too long to find her.

As they passed under the bridge that connected the Armoury to the Great Keep, the sound of clashing steel began to fill the air. Bran began to crane his neck slightly, trying to find the source of it, knowing it would likely be Arya.

As they turned a corner, they came across a scene that made a small smirk cross Bran’s lips.

Arya was standing in the middle of a small courtyard, holding Needle in the left hand, turning her head to look at her two sparring opponents. Bran followed her gaze and saw that both Thoros of Myr and Beric Dondarrion both had their swords drawn, and had matching looks of amusement on their faces.

The Stark man stopped the chair a short distance away from them to allow Bran and to see and hear everything, before backing away again. However, Bran was too engrossed in watching to really pay too much attention.

As he watched, Beric took a step forward and lunged with his sword. Bran was shocked with the speed that Arya moved, ducking under the blade and jabbing the point of Needle, very lightly, into the man’s armpit. Beric recoiled with a look of shock on his face, shaking his sword arm slightly. Bran knew that, in a proper fight, Arya’s blow would have been very effective in limiting the man’s ability to use his own blade.

At the same moment Thoros took a step forward and swung his sword towards her, so that, if he were not sparring, would have come into contact with her head. Bran was a little shocked that both Beric and Thoros didn’t seem to be holding back and was about to call out a needless warning when he saw Arya’s head turn slightly, as if sensing the blow, before she spun and deftly rolled underneath the swing. As she righted herself, she jabbed the point of Needle into the side of Thoros’ knee, causing him to cry out, more out of shock than pain as Bran knew that she wouldn’t have used much force.

As all three of them straightened back up and stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, Bran regarded his sister with amazement. While he had seen visions of her actions at the Twins since her arrival back at Winterfell, he hadn’t seen any that showed off her impressive fighting abilities.

Their sparring continued for several minutes, sometimes with Arya coming off the better, sometimes with the Brotherhood being the victors. It took Bran a few of their rounds before he realised why they were doing so. It seemed to him like Beric and Thoros were giving her practise at fighting Westerosi knights, something that Arya would have the least experience in fighting against.

“She is impressive, isn’t she?” came a voice from beside Bran. “Your sister.”

Bran turned to the owner of the voice and saw a tall, dark haired man standing there, with a bow in one hand.

“She is,” Bran agreed, meeting the man’s eyes and pausing, with an expectant look on his face.

The man chuckled, clearly understanding Bran’s meaning.

“The name’s Anguy,” the man said, holding out his hand to Bran, which he took.

After they shook hands, both Bran and Anguy turned back to watch the sparring, just in time to watch Arya dart between their blades once more.

“She always was more interested in learning with a sword than anything else,” Bran said, smiling at the memory. “She would always sneak out of her lessons with Septa Mordane to come and join in with us, whether we were sparring or learning archery.”

“She has quite the skill with the bow,” Anguy noted. “I saw that when she was with us the first time.”

“She always beat me,” Bran chuckled, before looking down at the chair he was in a patted the arms. “And now she always will.”

“I could teach you,” Anguy offered, looking down at Bran. “You probably won’t be able to fight in any battles, and you likely won’t win any tourneys, but you could still learn.”

“But how?” Bran asked incredulously, all thoughts of his vision pushed from his mind for a moment.

“The chair shouldn’t stop you, Bran,” Anguy replied kindly, understanding Bran’s scepticism. “It _does_ hold you back from some things, but not everything. Many archers have learned to fire from horseback, the Dothraki being the most skilled at it.

“You already have that harness for your horse to help you ride, don’t you? I could make you a bow better suited to your size, and we could try that.”

Bran thought on it for a moment. While it would be nice to have something other that sit in the godswood and have his visions, and it would give him a chance to ride once more, something that he still loved, he knew that he shouldn’t allow himself to get distracted from his training.

“Thank you, Anguy,” Bran said sincerely. “I’ll think about it and let you know.”

“I’ll get started on making the bow,” the man said, with a smirk and a wink. “Just in case.”

As Anguy walked away, Bran turned back to where Arya was and saw that their sparing session had finished and that she had already spotted them and was making her way over to them.

“Meera!” Arya said with a smile. “It is good to see you back.”

While Bran knew already that both of his sisters got on well with Meera, it was still good to see. However, as Arya looked from Meera to Bran, he saw her smile fade immediately.

“Bran, what’s wrong?”

“How can you all tell that something is wrong?” Bran asked, shaking his head in amusement and disbelief.

“Leave the brooding to Jon,” Arya said, with a wry smile. “It doesn’t suit you.”

Bran nodded his agreement, before turning to gesture for the Stark man once more. However, before he could beckon him over, Arya strode around behind him and began to push his chair over to a secluded corner of the small courtyard, sheltered from the snow by the overhanging balcony above.

When they came to a halt, Meera and Arya stood on either side of his chair, huddled together for privacy despite their solitude.

“So, what’s happening, Bran?” Arya asked, her concern evident in her tone.

Once again, Bran explained his vision through. Like Meera, he was glad to see that there was no look of disbelief on Arya’s face, merely one of confusion and interest.

“Bran’s concerned about the siege of Highpoint,” Meera explained, once Bran had finished his story and had fallen into silence. “He was going to warg into a raven to scout out the siege, to see if it is still in place or if the Whitehills have somehow broken it. But I think it would be too dangerous, if the raven was shot down and killed.

“What do you think?”

Arya looked at him for a moment, with Bran meeting her eyes, waiting for her thoughts.

“Meera’s right, Bran,” she said, griping his arm gently. “You shouldn’t risk it.”

After a moment, Bran nodded, conceding to their argument. He remained silent for a moment, thinking hard. He _needed_ to find a way, just to be sure. Too many times his fears about what his visions could mean had been proven true.

“I’ll speak with the captain of the guard,” he said, coming to a decision. “I’ll ask him to spare a couple of men, and our fastest horses. And, in the meantime, we should increase the patrols of the walls and Winter Town, just to be safe.”

“I’ll ask Beric and the Brotherhood if they could help,” Arya offered, causing Bran to nod his thanks to her.

“Well, it has been a long ride,” Meera said suddenly. “I think I’ll go and rest a little.”

After bidding goodbye to them both, Meera turned and left, brushing her hand on Bran’s shoulder as she passed him. Bran smiled at her touch, once more feeling relief and gratitude for her presence.

As Bran returned his gaze to Arya, he saw that she was regarding him with a knowing look on her face, her mouth covered by a small smirk.

“What is it?” Bran asked, furrowing his brow in confusion.

“Nothing,” Arya replied unconvincingly, shaking her head. “So, what brings Meera back to Winterfell?”

“She brings news from Jon and Sansa,” Bran replied excitedly, perking up as he remembered the other news he had to share with her. “Her father has committed his men and pitch reserves to the fight against the Night King and his army.

“But she also told me about how Howland Reed had Robb’s will.”

Bran saw Arya tense up slightly at this, her face alive with curiosity.

“Robb legitimised Jon in the event of his death, and made him his heir. He is now Jon Stark.”

Arya’s face split into a broad grin at these words, one that Bran couldn’t help but mirror. He knew that out of the remaining siblings Arya was the closest to Jon, and she would know better than all of them what it would mean for Jon to have this happen.

“I’m happy for him,” she said, still smiling widely. “But in the end, his name never mattered anyway. He was always our brother, whether he is a Snow or a Stark.”

_Or a Targaryen_ , Bran thought and, from the look on Arya’s face, he knew that she was thinking something similar.

The two siblings fell into silence for a moment, both lost in their thoughts, with Bran wondering if he should go to the godswood for a little more training of his abilities, or whether he should head inside the keep to catch up some more with Meera.

“It must feel good, to have Meera back,” Arya said suddenly, as if reading his mind, making Bran jump slightly.

Bran looked into her eyes and instantly knew, from the knowing look that she was giving him, that there would be no point in trying to deny it, even if he had wanted to.

“It does,” he admitted, with a smile. “I’ve… I’ve missed her.”

Arya smiled a little at this, although Bran could see a hint of sadness in her expression too, which confused him slightly. It was only when her eyes began to drift around the courtyard, in particular over to where the main gate was, that he thought he understood.

“They will come home soon, Arya,” Bran said comfortingly. “Jon, Sansa… and Gendry.”

Arya’s eyes snapped back to him and he could see, by the defiant look on her face, that she _was_ going to try and deny it. However, her determined look quickly softened when Bran flashed her the same look of knowledge that she had just given him, and she merely nodded.

Without another word passing between them, Arya moved behind Bran and began to push his chair back towards the keep.

*

Later that evening, Bran retired to his chambers.

He had spoken to the new captain of the guard about his concerns over Highpoint, leaving out the parts about his vision, merely saying that he was concerned over the lack of news in the last few days.

Luckily the man seemed to agree and offered three of his men, along with a few of their best horses, to ride to Highpoint and meet with their men there to find out what was happening.

Feeling more at ease when he saw the trio ride from the gates that afternoon, Bran had then spent the remainder of the day with Meera, hearing about what she had been doing while back home in the Neck, as well as telling her all that had occurred at Winterfell in her absence.

As the sun set and tiredness begun to set in, Bran had requested that he be taken to his chambers. Before long, Meera had followed, without any second thoughts, causing Bran to smile. It would seem that, even after being apart, the two of them would immediately fall back into their routine again.

This was something that Bran was happy for, as he always slept better with her beside him.

As the two of them settled into the bed, with Bran feeling the warmth of her back pressed against his side, he closed his eyes and was instantly asleep.

He immediately found himself back out in the Winterfell courtyard, the snow falling around him and lying thick underfoot. Looking around him, Bran could see that there was nobody about him, no sign of any life whatsoever.

_So, this can’t be a vision of the past, or the future,_ he thought, as he began to cross the courtyard. _I hope so, at least._

For some reason, Bran felt himself being drawn towards the large staircase that led to the battlements. As he climbed, he could fell a knot of tension and nervous excitement building in stomach, for reasons that he didn’t really know why.

Before long, Bran reached the top of the staircase and looked out over the battlements, into the countryside beyond.

And jolted slightly in surprise.

While the majority of the scenery was the same as it had always been, there was one major change that was blotting the landscape.

White hills, as large as mountains, were dotted along the horizon.


	34. Daenerys VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you are guys. A longer chapter than usual to help with the Game of Thrones withdrawals. Hope you all enjoyed the finale, and will enjoy this chapter.  
> Next up will be Jon.

 

Daenerys

 

It was getting late into the afternoon, and they had been riding for over half the day now, the light rain that had been falling all day soaking and chilling her to the skin. Dany was riding at the front of their procession with Jon, their closest allies just behind them.

Now that they weren’t in the North, the amount of snow that fell had reduced a lot, even thought it was still bitterly cold. Dany had only spent a few weeks in the North, and yet the lack of a thick coating of snow underfoot was strange for her, so she could only have imagined how strange it was for the Northerners, as for many of them the only time that they left the North was to go to war.

As they continued to ride, Dany looked over to Jon and could see that he looked distracted. They were getting nearer to Riverrun now, with some of the men saying that they would be seeing it before nightfall, so Dany guessed that he was running plans through his head, thinking of any ways that they could take the keep, without endangering those held captive there.

_Particularly after he heard who was in there,_ Dany thought, recalling their time at the Twins a few days previously.

They had stopped outside the Twins on their march south, sending a message to Olyvar Frey for him to surrender and bend the knee. Their army had amassed outside as a show of strength, and the dragons were circling high above. As she looked at it, even Dany had to admit that it had been an intimidating sight.

Dany and Jon had spoken often about what fate should befall House Frey for their actions at the Red Wedding. In the end, Dany had said that Jon should be the one to make such a decision, as it was his family that had been hurt the most by them. Jon had been a little shocked by this at first, but Dany reminded him of the promise that she had made to him, to help make the Freys pay for their actions.

While they had been waiting, standing at the head of the assembled Northern lords, she had turned to Jon and he had looked angrier that she had ever seen him. Even from feet away, she could see the tension in his jaw and the way that his eyes were narrowed and glaring at the Frey sigil banners. Dany guided her own mare towards him and, as she got closer, she could see the vice like grip that he had on the reigns of his mount.

“Jon,” she said, when she was beside him.

He didn’t answer her at first, merely casting his eyes around at the landscape. She followed his gaze and saw that there were several areas where the ground was scorched, including several trees that were no more that charred, blackened trunks.

_That must be from the Red Wedding,_ Dany thought, as she continued to look around them. _It was years ago now, but they can’t wash away everything that they had done._

“Jon,” she said again, loudly and more insistent this time.

This time his head turned towards her, and she could see the anger in his eyes. It didn’t last for long however as, once his eyes found her, his expression softened. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and when he opened them again, Jon’s expression was calm.

“Are you well?” she asked him, despite knowing that he likely wasn’t.

“It is… hard, being here,” Jon said quietly, his eyes roaming over the landscape once more. “The place where Robb was betrayed, was murdered.

“To see _that_ sigil, still flying,” his voice became hard once more, as his eyes found the Frey banner that flew from the top of the keep.

While Dany could only imagine what was going through his mind, to be at the scene of such a horrible betrayal of someone he had loved so dearly, she needed him to remain focused on their task. While she knew that Jon was not usually the kind to allow his emotions to control his actions, the few times that she _had_ seen him do so had been when his family or those he cared for had been involved.

The two that came immediately to her mind had been his confrontation with Randyll Tarly on the beach at Dragonstone, where they had clashed over Jon’s friend Sam, and when she and Jon had argued, when they had been planning their alliance, where he had told her the truth about Rickard and Brandon.

_But hopefully not this time,_ Dany thought, as she looked back at him.

“I know it will be hard, Jon,” she said, gripping his wrist firmly. “But we will _need_ the Frey forces, against Cersei and after. So, please try not to take off Olyvar Frey’s head the moment you see him.”

Dany let a little teasing note into her voice at the end of the sentence, hoping to alleviate the tension. Luckily it seemed to work, as Jon chuckled slightly in response.

“I’ll try my best,” he said, a smirk spreading across his mouth.

As Dany had returned his smile, a horn had sounded from the Twins, causing everyone to turn towards the keep in time to see the gate being raised. As they watched a small procession left the keep on horseback and rode towards them under both the Frey banner and a flag of truce.

A tall, well-built man led the small procession and, from the way he was leading them and his finer clothes, Dany had guessed that this was Olyvar Frey. When they had stopped in front of them, she could see that the Frey’s eyes were darting around anxiously.

“Queen Daenerys Targaryen,” he said suddenly, bowing his head to her politely, with Dany inclining her head slightly in response.

“King Jon Snow,” the Frey said, now bowing his head to Jon, who remained unmoved.

“King Jon _Stark_ ,” Dany corrected him coldly.

However, her disapproving and cool exterior almost cracked when a look of shock and panic covered the face of Olyvar Frey, and she had to struggle to keep a straight face.

“I apologise, Your Grace,” Olyvar stammered, bowing his head towards Jon once more. “I had no idea.”

Jon remained silent, merely staring back at the man.

“I served as your brother’s squire, during the War of the Five Kings-”

“Until he was murdered,” Jon interrupted. “Right here.”

As he said this, Jon pointed out to where the charred tree trunks were, scars on the landscape that served as a constant reminder of the horrors that had occurred here.

Dany continued to watch Olyvar, and then saw the young man take a deep breath and swallow nervously.

“Yes,” the man admitted, looking sorrowful. “Robb was a good man, and did not deserve the cruel treatment that my family gave him and his mother.”

As he said this, Dany heard an intake of breath from behind her, and she turned her head slightly to see Sansa there, completely fixated on the Frey man. While there was no outward display of anger on her face, in contrast to Jon, Dany could see the tension in her body as she watched on.

“Your Grace, I beg your forgiveness,” Olyvar continued, the tone of his voice sounding completely genuine. “For the actions of my family against yours.”

There was a brief pause, with the only sounds being the calls of birds far off in the distance, and the sound of the wind blowing around them, making the various cloth standards around them blow wildly.

“Were _you_ at the Red Wedding?” Jon asked suddenly.

“No,” Olyvar replied quickly, and Dany could see that the man looked relieved. “My family sent me away, thinking that I had too much loyalty to Robb. They thought that I would warn him if I knew.”

“Would you?” came Sansa’s voice from behind them.

“Yes, my lady, I would,” the Frey said, turning to look at her. “Robb was my friend, and I would certainly have warned him about what was coming.”

Olyvar then fell silent, looking towards Jon with a concerned and nervous look on his face. Dany followed his gaze to Jon, who was looking past the Frey towards the Twins, with a look of deep thought on his face.

The pause that followed felt like hours to Dany, as she watched Jon make up his mind. After a moment, Jon turned back to Olyvar, and the crowd silenced.

“I don’t hold someone responsible for the actions of their family,” Jon declared, and Dany saw the Frey look hopeful. “If House Frey re-establishes their loyalty to House Tully of Riverrun, and this time does not break it, then you can remain the head of your House. A lot of your land will be stripped from you, and be given to surrounding families, which will reduce the size of your army.

“ _But_ , if you betray them again, then next time there will be no mercy or forgiveness.”

As Dany watched, there was a wave of relief pass over the Frey man’s face, but there was an outburst of outrage from behind them.

“What about our dead?” came a shout. “These traitors killed our sons, our brothers. Are they just going to be _forgiven?”_

There was a round of approving mutters at this, although no one added their voices to join. Dany saw Jon turn on his horse to face the speaker.

“Lord Cerwyn,” Jon said diplomatically. “All of the Freys who participated in the Red Wedding are dead. What would you have me do? Punish a man who had no knowledge of the event for the crimes of his family?”

Dany too turned towards this Lord Cerwyn, vaguely remembering the name as one of the Northern lords who was most outspoken in his disagreement with Jon’s decisions.

“They must be punished, at least,” Cerwyn barked.

“Like you wanted me to punish the Karstark and Umber children who didn’t participate in the Battle of the Bastards?” Jon replied, and now Dany could hear a hint of anger in his voice now.

There was a moment of tense silence that followed Jon’s words, and Dany could see all eyes darting back and forth between him and Lord Cerwyn. Dany watched Jon glaring back at Cerwyn, and felt a little helpless that she couldn’t aid him in this. This was a problem with one of his vassals and, as their king, he would have to deal with it, and it would only weaken his position if she had to step in and aid him.

“My lord,” Jon said suddenly, his voice oddly calm. “I understand your need for vengeance against the Freys. I lost my own brother here, remember? But all of the Freys that committed the act are already dead. What more can I do?

“If I punished Olyvar Frey for the crimes of his family, or the Karstarks and the Umbers for theirs, or even those Northern houses who didn’t come to aid of House Stark when we faced the Boltons, then we would be losing valuable fighting men in this war… and the one that follows.”

There was a pause that followed his words, as it often did whenever Jon mentioned the White Walkers. Dany had the suspicions that the vast majority of the people wouldn’t believe Jon until they saw them with their own eyes. This annoyed Dany as, while she could understand that the White Walkers sounded like lies and fantasies, she _knew_ that Jon wasn’t a liar, and so should all these men.

After a tense moment, Cerwyn nodded grimly before turning his head away. Dany saw that, while some people were looking relieved that the tension was over, a lot more were looking at Cerwyn with annoyance, with some even rolling their eyes at him.

_It seems like he challenges Jon too much for some of their liking,_ Dany thought, as she turned back to Jon.

As Jon returned his attention to Olyvar Frey, Dany felt a rush of pride and affection for him, and how he had managed to handle the situation.

It was not an easy decision to deal with, as she had been sat next to Jon when he had promised them vengeance against House Frey, in the same breath as the Lannisters. But, at the same time, Jon was not a cruel man, and would not punish or judge someone for their father’s crimes, something that Dany knew all too well.

“Lord Frey,” Jon said commandingly, the new lord bowed his head in deference. “We will be requiring what is left of your fighting men to join us in taking the Iron Throne from House Lannister.

“Also, Lord Edmure Tully is to be released from your dungeons, to return to his home once we have taken it back.”

Dany couldn’t help but notice a look of concern cross the young lord’s face at Jon’s words.

“Our fighting men are yours, Your Grace,” he said. “And Lady Roslin and their child will be sent on to Riverrun once it is retaken, as you have said.

“Unfortunately, I cannot release Lord Edmure Tully, as he is no longer here.”

This statement caused a ripple of concern and interest to run through the assembled crowd, and Dany could see Jon sit up a little straighter in the saddle.

“Then, where is he?” Jon demanded, with more curiosity than anger in his voice.

“The Lannisters arrived here, shortly after the assassin killed most of our House,” Olyvar said angrily, with Jon, Dany quickly saw, shifting uncomfortably. “They demanded that we hand Tully over to them, as we could ‘no longer protect him’. He was then taken to Riverrun, and now resides in their dungeon.”

As this memory passed through her mind, the sound of a horn broke Dany’s concentration and she was brought back to present, riding on their way to Riverrun.

While Dany had been absorbed in her own thoughts, Jon had ridden ahead of the procession and was now waiting at the crest of a hill in front of them. Spurring her mount forward, Dany soon joined him and looked down at the sight in front of her.

The keep of Riverrun lay before them, its white walls towering above the Red Fork and the Tumblestone, the two rivers that run past it. As Dany looked done at the triangle-shaped keep she had to admit that it was an impressive fortification as, once the gates and draw bridges were raised, like there were now, it was bordered by water on three sides, leaving it an island and practically impossible to reach.

On the land outside of the keep, there were the remnants of the camp where the bulk of the Lannister forces had been. However, they had clearly been warned of their oncoming arrival as the camp was now deserted, with smoke hanging low over the tents from hastily extinguished fire.

“The Lannisters have retreated inside the keep,” Jon said, when he saw her arrival. “They are preparing for a siege.”

“How long will that take?” Dany asked, hearing hooves approaching.

“Two years,” came a voice from behind them.

The two turned to see Sansa arriving, with Brienne of Tarth at her side. It was the warrior who had spoken.

“When I was here to speak to the Blackfish,” she said, as they came to a halt next to them. “I overheard some of the men saying that Riverrun has enough supplies to last two years. I imagine that the Lannisters would have made sure to have their storerooms piled high, especially once they learned of your alliance.”

“We don’t _have_ two years to waste on a siege,” Dany said, seeing her own frustration mirrored on Jon’s face.

“No, we don’t,” he agreed, as he looked down at the castle, clearly deep in thought.

*

Several hours later, Dany and Jon were now standing on the hill, their mounts taken to rest and feed in preparation for the long ride ahead of them. Night was beginning to fall around them, so a torch had been set up between them. Luckily, they were well out of range of Riverrun and any archers that they would have, leaving them free to not worry about being hit.

While Dany should have been enjoying being alone with Jon, their situation proved too tense for them to relax in each other’s company and any conversation that struck up between them was either about the matter at hand, or too tense and awkward and so was quickly abandoned.

A messenger had been sent down to keep around a couple of hours before, carrying an ultimatum to the Lannister commander. Its contents were simple: surrender the keep and bend the knee, and all those who were inside would live. Refuse and the keep would be taken by force, with massive Lannister casualties.

So far there had been no reply.

Dany gripped her thick cloak even tighter around her as a cold wind blew around them. It was nothing like the bitter wind that had blown through Winterfell, seemingly chilling her to her bones, but it was still enough to make her teeth chatter.

“It has been a while, hasn’t it?” Dany said, as she moved a bit closer to the torch to warm her. “Do you think they will accept the terms we sent?”

Jon was silent for a moment, still gazing down toward Riverrun.

“It depends on the commander,” he replied finally, turning to look at her.

“What do you mean?” Dany asked curiously.

“It depends whether the commander values his men’s lives over his orders from Cersei,” Jon explained. “If he does, then they should agree to terms.”

Dany nodded in understanding, both seeing the logic of his words and inwardly hoping that the commander _was_ the type of man to value lives over orders.

At that moment, there was the sound of someone in heavy armour approaching from behind them. Dany turned and saw Sansa and her companion, Lady Brienne approaching them from the camp.

“Welcome Sansa,” Dany said with a smile. “Lady Brienne.”

As the large woman bowed her head towards Dany, Sansa walked forward and stood between Dany and Jon, underneath the light of the torch.

“I thought that you might want someone to speak with,” Sansa explained. “If it is anything like before the Battle of the Bastards, then I imagine that Jon is being even more brooding than usual.”

Dany chuckled slightly as she nodded a little. Looking over at Jon, she could see a small smile cross his face as he quickly glanced over at the two of them.

“Tell me about Riverrun, Sansa,” Dany said, as she took Sansa’s arm in her own.

“It has been a long time since I was here,” Sansa replied, as she looked down at the keep in the distance, illuminated by dozens of torches along its walls. “I was only a young girl the last time I was here, shortly after Bran’s birth. I remember running and playing in the godswood.

“But most of what I know about it is what my mother told me. How she and my father married in the sept there, and how she gave birth to Robb there.”

At the mention of her brother’s name, Sansa paused slightly and Dany could feel her arm tense up slightly. Looking over to Jon, Dany saw that he too was looking grim and uncomfortable. Seeking to change the subject slightly, Dany gripped Sansa’s arm gently.

“It is a beautiful keep,” she said, looking down at Riverrun. “Hopefully we shall free your uncle soon and it will be given back to him.”

“If you can get inside,” Sansa noted. “I am not skilled in strategy but even I can see that Riverrun is near impossible to breach once the drawbridges have been raised.”

“Aye,” Jon replied. “It will be hard to do, but we will think of something.”

“If I may, Your Grace,” Lady Brienne announced, taking a step forward and bowing to Jon.  “I might know of a way.”

The three of them turned to her, and Dany could see that her own curiosity was matched by the two Starks.

“Yes, Lady Brienne?” Jon said, his tone of voice showing his interest.

“When I was here to speak to the Blackfish in attempt to gain his aid for taking Winterfell, I was still in the keep when the gate was raised and the Lannister forces attacked. The Blackfish showed us to a small, concealed port under the keep, and we were able to escape by boat.

“I don’t know if the Lannisters have found, but even if they have, we could surprise them.”

“Aye,” Jon replied, clearly thinking aloud. “It could work. Ser Davos could smuggle his way inside, with Tormund and Grey Worm, as well as a few of our best men. They could then open the gate and lower the drawbridge, allowing our forces the breach the castle. And then, once the gate is open, they could then go to the dungeons to secure Lord Edmure.”

“It sounds incredibly risky,” Dany said, releasing Sansa’s arm and walking over to Jon. “What if they _have_ found it, and are guarding it? We’d be sending them to their deaths.”

“And if we do nothing, then we will be stuck here for two years,” Jon countered. “Two years that we don’t have. It _is_ a risk, but we will need every man. If they surrender, then that is a few more thousand men to our cause.”

“And if they don’t?” Dany asked, concerned.

“Then we hope to minimise the casualties,” Jon replied.

“Can’t we leave the siege in place while we head south, and take Riverrun on the way back?” Sansa asked.

“We could,” Jon replied. “But that would leave you in danger, either with us as we fight a war or here as part of a siege.

“And then there is Edmure, being kept as a prisoner here. If we leave him here, then that is just more reason for them to use him a s a hostage. They might _still_ use him as one now, but we can’t just leave him here-”

“Because we need the troops from the Riverlands,” Dany finished, nodding her understanding.

“And he is family,” Jon continued, his voice softer, as he looked over to Sansa, who smiled back at him thankfully.

Dany immediately realised, with a smile of affection, that while Edmure was not a blood relative to him, the Tully man was one to Sansa, and so Jon was treating him as his own.

“I need to speak to Ser Davos,” Jon said, as he began to walk away.

Determined to speak with him privately about this, Dany followed him and, once they were a short distance from the others, she reached out and gripped his arm. He immediately stopped and turned to her, looking confused.

“Do you really think this plan can work?” Dany asked, in a hushed voice, not wanting their conversation to be overheard.

“I don’t know,” Jon replied bluntly, shocking Dany with his honesty.

She had expected him to try and persuade her to agree with the plan, with more talk about how it was their only plan. However, Dany would prefer to hear his doubts over their course of action, then lies and half-truths about it.

“But I wasn’t sure about our plan to retake Winterfell from the Boltons,” Jon continued, looking her in the eye. “Or when we had to hold Dragonstone from Euron Greyjoy.

“To be honest, I would be worried if I was completely sure our plan would work, as any plan rarely goes as intended.”

Dany nodded in response, understanding his meaning all too well. Too many of her plans while she had been in Essos had gone wrong for her to be so naïve as to think that any plan was completely perfect, without anything that could go wrong. Jon then reached out and gripped her shoulder gently, looking into her eyes.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, with such a look of warmth and affection on his face that Dany had to restrain herself from kissing him.

Before she could say or do anything, Jon released his grip on her shoulder and walked away from her. Dany turned her head and watched him go with a smile, despite still having reservations over their plan.

*

It took a further two hours for a reply to come.

Jon had come back from talking to Ser Davos, and had informed them that the smuggler was sure that he could do it and was making the preparations, and they had resumed their vigil at the top of the hill, watching the keep in the distance.

Suddenly, they saw the gate begin to rise, and the drawbridge lower. A horn sounded from their left, heralding the arrival of the messenger. As one Dany and Jon turned away from the keep and made their way back into the camp, heading for the large tent that had been prepared for them to receive him.

As they walked up to the tent, Dany saw that the Unsullied had already formed a guard of honour leading up to it. Dany knew that they were also there for her protection but, as she walked past them, she thought that it would be a foolish man that would try to do such a thing after seeing these men.

When they reached the tent, she saw that there was a standard on either side of the entrance, Stark on the left and Targaryen on the right, showing that their alliance was one of equals. Smiling at the sight, Dany entered the tent, with Jon close behind her.

In the tent, she could see that there were two chairs directly in front of them, set up on a small dais, each under a standard. The one on their left bore the Stark wolf, and Jon’s advisors stood beside it. Dany smiled towards Sansa, who stood at the chair’s side, with Lady Brienne at her back. She also recognised both Ser Davos and the wildling Tormund standing beside her.

Looking over to the other side of the tent, next to her own chair, Dany saw Ser Jorah standing just behind it, his hand on the hilt of his blade, as well as Missandei and Grey Worm standing nearby. Missandei gave Dany a reassuring smile as she approached, which she returned. Dany’s eyes then moved over to Grey Worm, and was surprised to see him wince slightly, with something clearly bothering him. However, the look left his face as quickly as it had appeared, and Dany knew that this wasn’t the time to bring it up and ask him, so she sat herself on the chair, with Jon sat beside her.

As she looked over to him, Dany found herself wondering.

_Is this what it will look like? If we beat the White Walkers and win the throne, is this how we will rule, together?_

Dany hoped so as she knew, even if there had not been the implied marriage pact between them, that the two of them would rule better together than they would if they were doing it alone.

Her thoughts were interrupted when a small group of Unsullied entered the room, escorting a man dressed in crimson armour, holding a standard bearing the Lannister lion.

“I bear a message,” the man said, in a quivering voice. “For Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Stark.”

“And what about our messenger,” Dany asked, in a firm voice.

“He…” the man said, looking extremely nervous. “He has been kept in Riverrun, to ensure that I return alive.”

“You would have been sent back alive, regardless,” Dany replied, annoyed by this tactic.

“My apologies,” the messenger replied, looking nervously at the Unsullied that flanked him.

“What is the reply from your commander?” Jon asked, drawing the man’s attention to him.

At these words, Dany saw the man swallow nervously.

“He has rejected your terms,” he said, with the tone of a man walking to the gallows. “He says that he will not yield Riverrun to you.”

Although they had anticipated this as a likely outcome, hearing it was still a blow. Sharing a look with Jon, Dany couldn’t help the frustration from showing. If they had yielded then it would have removed a massive problem for them, while at the same time giving them a few thousand more men to fight against the White Walkers.

At that moment, there was the shriek of one of the dragons as it flew overhead. From the sound, Dany guessed that it was Viserion, as it wasn’t as loud as Drogon’s nor as long as Rhaegal’s.

However, what caught Dany’s attention was the reaction of the Lannister messenger.

At the sound, the man’s eyes darted up to the ceiling of the tent, wide and fearful, as Dany was surprised to see his whole body shaking.

_He’s terrified,_ Dany realised. _Just the sound of the dragons is enough to make him shake in terror. How many others in that keep are the same?_

Struck by a sudden idea, Dany rose from her chair and approached the messenger. At her action, she heard a sword being slightly unsheathed from behind her, which she immediately guessed was Ser Jorah, and saw the Unsullied tensing up, ready to defend her should the man try anything.

The Lannister man averted his gaze from the ceiling to look at her as she approached. As Dany looked into the man’s eyes, she could see that the fear hadn’t fully left them.

“Would you bend the knee?” she asked, in the now silent tent.

The man looked confused for a moment before he answered.

“The commander’s message-”

“I didn’t ask what you commander wanted,” Dany replied firmly. “I asked what _you_ wanted. Would _you_ bend the knee, given the choice?”

There was a long pause as the man thought about his answer, clearly struggling with what he should say.

“Yes,” he muttered finally, with the air of a man confessing some dark secret. “I would.”

“And the other men within Riverrun? Would they too bend the knee?”

“Not all of them,” the man said, looking at the floor. “Some of them hate you and your family too much. But most of them don’t care about that. They just want to live.”

There was a pause after his words, with Dany thinking hard about what she should do. After a moment, Dany felt someone stand next to her and turned to see Jon standing there, looking at her. As their eyes met, Jon gave her a nod and supportive smile.

Dany returned his smile and, having come to a decision, she turned back to the man before her.

“Then I have two messages for you to deliver,” she declared, feeling the room tense up with curiosity at her words.

“The first is for your commander,” she continued. “Tell him that he has until sunrise to surrender Riverrun. Or we will take it from him.”

There was a beat of silence in the room, and Dany could feel all eyes upon her, anticipating the second part of her statement.

“A-and the second?” the man stammered.

“Is for the men,” Dany finished, taking another step forward. “Tell them that any who surrender and kneel, will be spared.”        

A look of shock spread across the man’s face as he looked at like he couldn’t believe his ears, which worried Dany.

_What have they been told about me?_ She wondered. _That I will burn them alive for their ‘treachery’, like my father did?_

Casting these thoughts aside for the moment, Dany turned to the Unsullied that surrounded him.

“Escort this man back to Riverrun,” she commanded. “And bring back our messenger, alive.”

The Unsullied bowed their heads and escorted the man from the tent, who was still looking at Dany in confusion, like he still couldn’t believe that she had said what she did.

As the tent flap closed behind them, Dany turned to Jon and saw that he was smiling at her in approval.

“It looks like your plan might work after all,” Dany said, returning his smile.

Jon’s smile faded slightly, to be replaced by one of interest.

“What makes you so sure?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“If most of the men want to surrender, then they might overthrow the commander before he can raise a defence against us. And even if they don’t, once the gate is opened, and our army pours inside, then those who wish to live will likely surrender.”

“If they weren’t bluffing,” Ser Davos said, from his position by Jon’s chair.

“Ser Davos has a point,” Jon said, as he looked back at her. “That man could have been lying, to get us to lower our guard.”

“He looked terrified,” Dany pointed out, remembering the look of fear on his face, and the way his body has been shaking.

“Maybe he was,” Jon conceded, holding his hands up. “Maybe he was telling the truth. I hope he was. But we can’t take it for a guarantee. We have to assume that every man in that keep is an enemy, until proven otherwise. If we don’t, then we _could_ be sending our men to their death.”

Dany thought on his words for a moment, and could immediately see the logic and sense behind them.

“Yes, I agree,” she said, nodding her understanding. “But I will not be using the dragons during the battle. I don’t want them to destroy the keep if Lord Edmure is still there, or kill any of the Lannister men who _do_ wish to surrender.”

Jon immediately nodded his agreement, before turning back to Davos.

“How many people can you smuggle into Riverrun, Ser Davos?”

Davos took a step towards them and scratching thoughtfully at his greying beard with his fingered hand.

“Four,” he said, finally. “Maybe five, if they don’t mind getting cosy.”

“I will go, my Queen,” Grey Worm said, as he stepped forward.

Dany turned to him and, while his pained expression from before was not completely from her mind, he seemed to be both well enough and dead set on going. Dany nodded her permission to him, and as he moved back to his place, she saw Missandei’s hand reach out to grip his forearm.

As she turned back to the others, Dany saw Ser Davos turn to Brienne.

“I could use your assistance, my lady,” he said. “You have told me where this secret access is, but you have _been_ there.”

Dany watched as Brienne looked uncertain for a moment, before turning to Sansa, seemingly for her approval.

“I give you leave to go, Brienne,” Sansa said, gripping the lady’s forearm. “They could use your aid, and your sword arm. I will be safe here, especially with Queen Daenerys’ dragons here.”

Brienne nodded back at Sansa, a small smile tugging at her lips, before she looked at Davos.

“I will join you, Ser Davos,” Brienne promised grimly.

“Well, that’s two,” Davos said, turning to Jon. “Just need a few more-”

“I’ll go,” Tormund interrupted, his eyes towards Brienne.

Dany, feeling confused, looked towards Jon, who rolled his eyes and shared an exasperated look with Davos.

“All right, Tormund,” Jon said, raising his hand towards him and chuckling. “Just be careful.”

Dany couldn’t help but notice a flicker of discomfort pass over Lady Brienne’s face at Tormund’s words. Despite being completely on the dark over what they were referring to, she couldn’t help but be a little reassured by the people leaving on this mission.

Grey Worm was not only the commander of the Unsullied, but one of its finest warriors, who had shown his valour in many battles during their time in Essos. She had seen Tormund’s fighting ability during the Battle of Dragonstone, when he and Jon had stormed into the Room of the Painted Table to kill the Ironborn invaders, and knew that he was a formidable warrior. Dany knew that Lady Brienne, as Sansa’s sworn protector, must be a proven warrior and had heard whispers that she had managed to defeat the Hound, a feat that, having glimpsed the man in the flesh a few weeks earlier, Dany knew was not easily done.

However, Dany was shocked by the next volunteer.

“My Queen, I would go as well,” Ser Jorah said, stepping forward and bowing his head.

Dany had expected that he would wish to remain by her side for the duration of the battle, to keep a watchful eye over her, so the news that he would head into battle was a bit of surprise.

And it would seem that she was not alone in that.

“But you are the Lord Commander of Queen Daenerys’ Queensguard,” Jon said, and Dany could see that he was looking confused by the request.

“I serve the Queen,” Jorah replied. “And, right now, the best way that I can serve her is by helping to retake Riverrun. And, as the Lady Sansa said, Queen Daenerys will be well protected by her children in my absence.”

Jorah met her eyes, and she saw both his determination and his sincerity. And, while she was surprised by his offer, she knew that it made sense. Jorah was one of the best fighters that they had available to them, and they would need every one of those if they were to open the gates. And, while it was unlikely that she would be attacked, she _would_ have her three children, plus her Unsullied guard, to protect her in such an event.

Dany nodded to him, silently giving her permission. In response, Jorah bowed his head and backed away towards his original position behind her chair.

“Well that makes four,” Davos said, looking between the volunteers and nodding approvingly. “Although we still have room for one more, if there is another in mind?”

Dany couldn’t think of anyone else who still remained with them, other than Jon, who could compare with the skill of those already going. However, Jon would be leading the army itself when it entered through the gate… if it was raised.

“Speak to the Hound,” Jon said suddenly, surprising everyone. “He is one of the best fighters we have here, so I’m sure he can be valuable.

“I know you have bad blood with him, Lady Brienne,” Jon continued, raising a hand to prevent any interruptions. “But from what Arya tells me, his vendetta with his brother will be enough to prevent him from doing anything foolish. And if not, the others will keep him in check.”

Dany thought back to a few weeks earlier, where she and her companions had come across a tense scene between the Hound and Brienne, in which she had seen it had only been moments away from blades being drawn.

While Brienne still looked a little dubious about the idea, she nodded her head grimly, and Dany noticed that her hand had gone to the hilt of her blade, almost subconsciously.

“Get prepared then, Davos,” Jon said, as he took a step forward and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We will need you to set off while it is still dark, ready for if they don’t accept our terms.”

Davos nodded his understanding and both Tormund and Brienne moved forward, with the latter sharing a brief goodbye with Sansa. As Dany turned back towards her companions, she saw Jon and Tormund sharing a goodbye, gripping forearms with Jon wishing his friend good luck. Dany smiled slightly at the sight, having grown quite fond of the fiery wildling and his blunt manner.

Dany approached Ser Jorah first, taking his hands in her own, his left hand and arm still encased in his long leather glove.

“Good luck, Ser Jorah,” she said, smiling warmly at him. “I wish you good fortune in your mission.”

“Thank you, my Queen,” Jorah replied, smiling widely at her words, squeezing her hands gently.

After a moment, he released her hands and, after a small smile and nod, he walked past her to join Tormund and Davos as they left the tent. Dany then turned to Grey Worm, who bidding goodbye to Missandei. Not wishing to interrupt the farewell of her friends, Dany waited for them to finish.

After a moment, Grey Worm leaned forward and the two of them kissed gently, and Dany could see the way that Missandei was gripping gently onto his forearms, as his hands held her waist. Smiling, Dany averted her eyes to the floor, wishing to give them as little privacy as she could in the confines of a tent full of people.

A few moments pause, Dany raised her once more to see that the two of them had separated and Grey Worm was walking towards her. Straightening up, Dany smiled at him as he approached.

“Good luck to you too, Grey Worm,” she said, before lowering her voice so only he could hear. “Are you sure you are well enough for this?”

His usual stoic expression broke slightly at these words, to be realised by a look of confusion. Dany held his gaze, hoping that he would see that she was merely worried rather than judging his decision.

“I am, my Queen,” he said after a moment, nodding his head firmly.

“Very well,” Dany replied, nodding. “Keep yourself safe.”

While Dany was not entirely convinced by his words, she knew that Grey Worm knew himself and his abilities better that she did. And, while Dany was still unsure over whatever it was that was causing him pain, he _did_ , and he clearly felt that it was not enough to prevent him from fighting.

After giving her another appraising look, Grey Worm put on his helm and left the tent, following after the others. Dany turned to watch him go, hoping that she wasn’t making a mistake in letting him go.

*

Their small group had retaken their place at the top of the hill, looking down at the barely illuminated form of Riverrun visible in the distance. Dany stood between Jon and Missandei, with Sansa on Jon’s other side and Ghost stood a little in front of them, looking down at the events unfolding before him.

It was nearly dawn, and there had so far been no response to their messages from Riverrun. The messengers had been exchanged with no trouble, with their own sharing some welcome news of dissent within the Lannister encampment. He had overheard many of the men questioning their fealty to the ‘Mad Queen’, seemingly at the cost of their own lives.

While this did bolster the mood considerably, thinking that any dissent against the leadership could only work in their favour, there had not been any good news since, with Riverrun’s gate remaining as impassable as ever.

As dawn inched closer, still with no answer from inside the keep, the air of tension on the hilltop grew. The time passed in almost agonising silence, with Dany and everyone else aware that every moment that passed was another closer to a battle that would result in the deaths of hundreds of men.

Davos and the others had set off on their mission several hours previously. The Hound _had_ joined them in the end and, from what they had heard, he hadn’t taken much convincing, as according to Brienne he had been itching for a fight. By now, they would be lying in wait inside the small port that Lady Brienne had told them about, assuming that they hadn’t been discovered, waiting for either dawn to break or for the Riverrun garrison to surrender, whichever came first.

Dany knew that their combined army of Northmen and Unsullied was amassing behind them, ready for Jon to lead them through the gates should the Lannisters ignore their terms of surrender, and Ser Davos and the others be successful in their task of opening the gate.

When the first light of dawn began to filter over the horizon, it came with a sense of dread and foreboding, knowing that the time had run out for the enemy to surrender. Her heart sinking, Dany turned to Jon, and saw that he was looking out to the horizon, his entire body tense, as he absent-mindedly scratched Ghost behind his ears.

“I should go and assemble the men,” Jon said finally as he turned back to face them, with a heavy tone of voice.

“Good luck, King Jon,” Missandei said, smiling at him encouragingly.

“Thank you, my lady,” Jon replied, bowing his head slightly towards her.

Sansa then approached him and hugged her brother. Dany smiled at the sight, once more pleased that she could see for herself the strong bond between the Starks.

“Be safe, Jon,” they heard Sansa say. “Make sure that you come back.”

“I will,” Jon said, as he returned his sister’s hug, and Dany could see a small smile on his face.

After a moment, Sansa and Jon parted, with the siblings sharing a resigned smile. Dany knew that this wasn’t the first time that the two of them had parted, with Jon heading off to something that could mean his death. They had likely done something similar before the Battle of the Bastards and even when he had travelled to Dragonstone to meet with her.

Sansa then headed back over to where Missandei stood and, without a word, the two of them backed away from Jon and Dany. Dany watched them go for a moment with a confused look, before she realised that they were trying to give them some privacy for _their_ goodbye.

Smiling slightly at the gesture, Dany turned to Jon, who was looking down at their men. As she walked towards him, Dany followed his gaze and saw the men falling into their formations.

Jon turned to face her when he saw her approach, a smile crossing his face and softening his worried expression. Dany came to a stop in front of him, looking up into his face. Before she could say anything, Jon reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder.

“I will be fine,” he said quietly, in a comforting tone.

Dany nodded slightly, still not completely reassured. Suddenly, Jon’s hand on her shoulder moved to behind her neck, and pulled her towards him, his lips pressing against her forehead. Dany was momentarily taken aback by this, as, apart from their kiss in the godswood, Jon rarely initiated any intimate moment between them.

Feeling his beard scratching against the skin of her forehead, Dany leaned into his lips, her fingers gripping at his leather chest piece. After a few moments, that seemed too short to Dany, Jon pulled his lips away, and moved his hand around to cup her cheek.

“I’ll see you soon,” he whispered, his thumb caressing her cheek.

He then pulled his hand away from her and, with a final smile to her, he turned and began to head down the hill towards their army. Before he got too far though, he stopped and turned to his wolf, walking obediently at his side.

“Ghost, stay,” he said, before looking back up the hills towards them. “Protect the Queen.”

Surprised by this, Dany saw Ghost look at Jon for a moment, cocking his head to the side, showing his own confusion over Jon’s command. However, after a moment, the wolf turned and walked back up the hill and sat down on his hind legs next to Dany. Even while seated, the wolf was nearly as tall as she was. Dany reached her hand out, and after a moment’s pause, Ghost lowered his head slightly and allowed her to scratch his head.

After a final look towards them, Jon turned again and made his way down the hill. After watching him leave for a moment more, Dany turned away and went over to join Sansa and Missandei in waiting for the gate to open, Ghost walking along by her side.

Dany took her place between the two women, with Ghost laying down in between her and Sansa. The three of them looked out towards the keep, praying for their friends to have completed their task.

As the minutes stretched by, at an agonisingly slow pace, Dany saw Missandei was wringing her hands together, as she often did whenever she was concerned. Dany reached out and took one of her friend’s shaking hands in her own, squeezing it hard. Missandei turned and met her eye, with a weak smile, which Dany returned encouragingly.

At that moment, a horn sounded, making them jump.

“The gate!” Sansa called, sounding joyous.

Dany and Missandei both spun to look at it, with even Ghost standing up to see. Her heart soared to see that the gate was rising, and the drawbridge lowering at the same time.

The horn sounded again from behind them, and the three of them simultaneously to see their army begin to advance on the keep. Dany saw that the Unsullied had moved into their normal phalanx formations.

However, this time it was slightly different.

While the outer two rows _were_ made up of the Unsullied, marching forward in perfect coordination, the core of the phalanx was comprised of Northmen. While Dany was initially confused, the reason for this soon became clear when the first of the formations came within range of the Lannister archers, and the entire group raised their shields to block the projectiles.

Dany recalled how a lot of the Northmen fought without a shield, similar to Jon, and so they would be unprotected and vulnerable in taking the keep. While Dany could see some of the Northern tower shields, emblazoned with various different sigils, she knew that the majority of the protection would be from the Unsullied.

Smiling at the sight of their two forces working so well together, Dany watched as the combined Stark and Targaryen forces marched their way towards Riverrun, slogging their way through the mud that surrounded it. While they could see several men had been hit with arrow through the chinks in their shield defences, the first formations reached the keep with very few losses.

Before long their men had breached the keep, with only a few, smaller phalanxes remaining outside. These were soon revealed to be comprised of their archers, with the shields parting during the lulls in caused by the Lannister archers’ volleys to allow them to return fire.

The three of them watched the archers take shots at each other, completely unable to see the scale of the battle that they knew would be raging inside the walls. Dany was reminded of the taking of Yunkai, where she had been waiting in her tent for word of the success of her army. While this time it was a little better, as she could see a little of the events and that, as a keep, it shouldn’t take as long as sacking a city, she was still filled with the same restless energy.

As the time passed, Dany found herself looking up to her circling dragons several times, itching to call to Drogon and take to the skies to give her an overview of the battle. However, Dany resisted the urge as, not only would it put her in danger of the Lannister archers, but she didn’t want the men to have any more reasons to fear her, other than the lies that they had undoubtedly been told by Cersei.

While Dany knew that it had likely only been an hour or so since the battle had begun, it felt like several times that. So, it came as a relief when they heard horns sound from within the keep, and the Lannister archers’ volleys ceased.

After a split second of silence, they heard cheers from within Riverrun that caused Ghost, who had long since lain back upon the grass, to rise quickly back to his feet, his tail wagging slowly as he looked down over the plain.

Dany let out a relieved laugh when she saw the remaining phalanxes break apart, the men clearly celebrating.

_They had won._

Dany let out a relieved sigh, with a feeling like she had been holding her breath for the entire battle. She looked to either side of her and saw that her relief was mirrored on the faces of her companions, mixed with the concern over the fate of Jon, Grey Worm and the others.

Unable to wait any longer, Dany turned and ordered for their horses to be brought to them. After another few agonising minutes, their mounts were brought before them, with Dany wasting no time in hoisting herself into the saddle, with Sansa and Missandei not too far behind them.

The three of them headed down the hill towards the keep, taking care to avoid the areas where the mud seemed to be the thickest, not wanting their mounts to be become stuck. As they grew closer, the sounds of the celebrations grow louder and louder, they passed by several bodies. A few were Unsullied, but the rest were either Northmen or Free Folk, and Dany felt a rush of sadness at the loss. Not because they were valuable fighting men that they would later need, but for the families that they would never see again.

With this unfortunate reminder of the consequences of this war, Dany continued to make her way towards Riverrun. As they approached they saw a lone figure leaving the gate and, as they got closer, they realised that it was Jon. Dany let out a relieved sigh, and heard Sansa call out his name.

The two of them dismounted from their horses, with Missandei following. Sansa and Dany both embraced him, despite the fact that he was covered in sweat and blood. Thankfully, apart from a small slash to his leg, he seemed unharmed.

“I am fine,” Jon said, as Dany released him. “Once the gate fell, while the commander and some of his most loyal men fought us, a lot of the other men surrendered. It seems like that messenger told the truth.”

While was relieved to hear that some of the men had decided to surrender to them, she couldn’t help but be disappointed that there had to be bloodshed at all.

_If the commander has surrendered, then all of his men would have lived,_ Dany thought sadly. _All for his loyalty, or fear, for Cersei._

“Where are they?” Sansa asked.

“They are being led to the dungeons,” Jon replied as reached out to pet Ghost, who was standing at his master’s side, his tail wagging furiously.

“And Uncle Edmure?”

“He too is fine, Sansa. The Hound, Tormund and Brienne headed down to the dungeons and freed him.”

“And Grey Worm?” came Missandei’s voice. “What of him?”

At this Jon’s face became covered by a look of sadness and concern, and Dany felt her stomach plummet.

“He is alive, my lady,” Jon said sadly. “But the wound he received on Dragonstone must have reopened in the past few days, and has become infected. Shortly after the battle was over, he collapsed, burning with fever. He is with the maester now.”

Dany, feeling sick to her stomach at the thought of Grey Worm being so injured, turned to Missandei and saw that she had gone pale. Just as Dany was about to say something to comfort her, Missandei spoke.

“I need to see him,” she said, her voice quivering.

Jon nodded, before immediately turning and summoning one of his men.

“Take Lady Missandei to the maester,” he commanded. “And make sure that he had everything he needs.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the man said, before turning and showing Missandei through the gates.

Dany watched them leave with a sense of sadness and guilt.

_I knew that there was something wrong with him and didn’t say anything,_ Dany thought. _I should have confronted him about it, then maybe he wouldn’t be in this situation._

Dany thoughts were interrupted when she felt a hand on her arm. She looked over to see Jon standing beside her, looking concerned.

“Grey Worm is strong,” he said comfortingly. “He’ll fight through it.”

She nodded in response to his words, despite not being fully convinced. However, she didn’t have much time to dwell on it, as another group of people exited the gate. Dany saw Tormund and Brienne walking towards them, leading a long-haired and quite dirty man towards them.

As he grew closer, Dany could see some similarities between his appearance and Sansa’s, most notably the shade of their hair and their eyes.

_This must be Edmure Tully_ , Dany thought, as she looked him over.

He was unshaven and had clearly been denied a bath for a considerable period of time. He was also squinting slightly, like he wasn’t used to the light. As she saw this, she felt a pang of pity for the man.

_What must it have been like?_ She wondered. _To have been held captive in the dungeons of your own keep?_

“Uncle Edmure,” Sansa said, as she approached the man and hugged him.

Edmure stood there for a moment, completely taken aback by this. However, after a moment, his shock and tension fell away and he embraced her back.

“Sansa,” he said, his voice husky, as though he was not accustomed to using it. “It has been too long.”

Sansa released her uncle, and Dany saw his smile widen slightly.

“You look just like your mother,” he said, his voice now sounding sad.

While Sansa’s head dropped slightly at the mention of her mother, she quickly raised it again, with a determined look on her face.

“Uncle, this is my brother Jon,” she said, indicating to where he stood. “He was named the King in the North after we retook Winterfell and, after Robb legitimised him in his will, is now a Stark.”

Dany saw Jon look at little uncomfortable in meeting Edmure, and she could tell that, after what she had heard about Lady Catelyn, he was expecting Edmure to think of him similarly.

However, Edmure merely stepped forward and offered Jon his hand.

“Then I owe you gratitude for my rescue, Your Grace,” Edmure said gratefully, as the two of them shook hands.

“Thank you, my lord,” Jon said, smiling. “But we would not have been able to rescue you without the help of our ally, Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen.”

“Targaryen?” he spluttered, turning to stare at her.

Dany merely smiled at him, and bowed her head politely.

“It is an honour to meet you, Lord Edmure,” Dany said, as she took a few steps forward. “As it is to return Riverrun to its rightful owners.”

Edmure remained silent for a moment, merely looking at her in surprise. Dany waited, feeling uncomfortable in his extended silence. After a tense moment, Edmure swallowed hard, and nodded.

“Then I owe you my gratitude as well, Your Grace,” he said, nodding to her.

Dany smiled a little wider at him, as well as sharing a relieved look with Jon, who had clearly picked up on the uncomfortable moment between them.

“Uncle?” Sansa said hesitantly. “I know that you have a lot more things to worry about right now, but we have something difficult to ask of you.”

“What is that?” he asked, looking suspicious.

“Your fighting men,” Jon said, who also looked a little hesitant. “Whatever remains of the armies of the Riverlands. To help us remove House Lannister from the Iron Throne, and then to aid us in the fight against the White Walkers.”

“White Walkers?” Edmure echoed as he raised his eyebrows, looking sceptical.

“Yes, Uncle,” Sansa said, gripping his arm. “I know that is hard to believe, but Jon is not the type to lie. He is a lot like Father like that.”

Edmure looked into Sansa’s eyes and, while his look of disbelief didn’t change, he turned back to Jon.

“Well I do owe you both a debt,” Edmure conceded, as he looked between the two of them. “But, I do have one question.

“Which ruler would my men be serving?”

Feeling Jon’s eyes upon her, Dany smiled a little as she replied.

“Your men would follow Jon’s command for now,” she said, seeing his look of shock. “And then, like the Vale, the Riverlands will be given the choice of which ruler they wish to bend the knee to, once the wars have been won.”

Edmure looked at her for a moment, looking completely disbelieving, as though he thought that any moment it would be revealed to be a ruse. When no one contradicted Dany’s statement, Edmure nodded his agreement.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” he said, still looking confused. “Whatever remains of my men are King Jon’s to command.

“But, if I may, is there any news of my wife and son?”

“We freed them from the Twins, Uncle,” Sansa said, reassuringly. “House Frey has been decimated by an assassin, with only Olyvar Frey left alive. Jon has stripped them of part of their lands, to be given to other loyal houses, and they had repledged their fealty to House Tully. Your wife and child are to be sent along as soon as they receive word that we have retaken Riverrun.”

Edmure looked relieved and Dany felt a happiness for the man.

_It must be a great feeling,_ Dany thought. _To be released from a cell, and knowing that you will soon be back with your child._

“I think that will be enough for now,” Dany said, looking at Jon. “I’m sure Lord Edmure could use some rest.”

Jon nodded his agreement with her words and Edmure, after offering his gratitude once more, turned and entered the keep once more, with Sansa at his side.

Dany looked up at the keep once more. While she felt a sense of accomplishment at their victory, it was marred slightly when she thought of the cost. Not only the dead that littered the battlefield, but also Grey Worm, lying somewhere in the keep, under the care of the maester.

*

A few days later, Dany was once again standing outside the keep, standing beside Jon as they bid goodbye to Sansa. She was going to remain in Riverrun with her uncle until their return from King’s Landing. Lady Brienne had also announced that she would be remaining behind, to Tormund’s clear disappointment.

Both Grey Worm and Missandei were to remain behind as well, with his injury keeping him bedridden for the time being. While the maester’s care had slowed his fever, he was still weak and found standing difficult.

Dany recalled the goodbye that she had given them shortly before, with Grey Worm still looking pale in his bunk, and Missandei sat by his side.

“We hope to not be too long,” Dany had said, standing beside the bunk.

“I should be going to,” Grey Worm said, as he made a feeble attempt to rise from his bunk.

“No,” Dany said, as Missandei laid a hand on his shoulder. “I command you to stay here and rest. I didn’t stop you from fighting before, but I can stop you from hurting yourself more.”

Grey Worm didn’t look happy about it, but at Dany’s command and Missandei’s concern, he agreed.

As Dany turned to leave, Missandei rose from her seat, and Dany wrapped her arms around her.

“It is not often that we part ways,” Missandei said sadly.

“I know,” Dany replied, as she felt her friend’s grip around her. “But I shall see you soon. _Both_ of you.”

The two of them separated, and Missandei gave her a sad, resigned smile, which Dany returned, gripping her arm gently.

After bidding them both another farewell, Dany had left the room, hoping that she would soon be seeing her friends again soon.

Outside the keep, Dany watched as Jon and Sansa made their farewells, with Jon then explaining their plans to Edmure, now clean-shaven and bathed.

“We will head to Harrenhal and make a garrison there,” he said, as he and Sansa broke their embrace. “To hold the area while we continue south.”

“Our men will join you there,” Edmure said, as the two men shook hands. “I have already sent out the ravens, and the men are preparing as we speak.”

As the two of them spoke, Sansa approached Dany and, to her surprise, hugged her too.

“I wish you a safe journey, Dany,” Sansa said quietly. “And I hope to hear of your victory soon.”

“Hopefully we won’t be too long,” Dany replied, as the two of them parted.

“I’ll keep an eye on Missandei and Grey Worm, too,” Sansa said. “And make sure that they have everything they need.”

“Thank you, Sansa,” Dany replied gratefully.

The two of them shared a brief smile, as Jon walked over to them.

“Are you ready?” he asked Dany.

“Yes,” she replied, as she then turned to mount her horse.

Dany and Jon moved to the front of the procession once more, with Jorah, Tormund, Davos and Black Rat, the temporary commander of the Unsullied, behind them.

Dany looked back over her shoulder at Riverrun before it fell out of sight and wondered how long it would be before she it, and all those inside it, again.


	35. Jon VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you are everyone. Another long chapter, so i hope you all enjoy it and that it is worth the wait.  
> I have next week off of work, so you can expect the next chapter to be up then sometime, and it will be a Tyrion chapter.

 

Jon

 

They spent the next few days travelling from Riverrun to Harrenhal, the weather growing milder as the days passed. While Jon had experienced the mild southern weather while he had been on Dragonstone, it still felt strange after being back in the snowy North. There was still the chill of winter in the air but it was mainly caused by the fine rain soaking them through, rather than snowfall.

While their travel had been mostly uneventful, with them being safely within the Riverlands, the monotony of their travel was broken when they grew close to Stone Hedge and Raventree.

As they had approached they had seen a large encampment that had been set up, that was visibly divided into two, with dozens of tents for the men set up and several large pens for their horses. Jon could see that one half of the encampment was flying the weirwood and raven sigil of House Blackwood, while the other was displaying the red stallion of House Bracken. Seeing this, Jon had a feeling of unease, remembering from his lessons with Maester Luwin about the history of Westerosi houses, and the centuries long feud that had existed between the Blackwoods and Brackens.

As they got closer, they saw two small groups of men exiting the camp, one from either side. One rode under the sigil of House Blackwood, the other of House Bracken. Jon gave the order of their procession to halt, and await their arrival.

When the small group reached them, Tytos Blackwood, the Lord of Raventree Hall, a tall bearded man, and his heir Brynden, were at the head of one of the parties. The other was led by Lord Jonos Bracken, a heavy-set man who was glaring over at the Blackwood delegation with poorly disguised loathing.

“King Jon,” Lord Tytos said, bowing his head towards him.

Jon returned the gesture, vaguely remembering that Lord Tytos had always been a friend to House Stark, even fighting for Robb during the War of Five Kings. It was a relationship that Jon was keen to continue.

“Lord Tytos,” Jon said, urging his mount forward in order to shake the man’s hand.

“King Jon,” Lord Tytos said, shaking his hand firmly, before indicating to the younger man at his side. “May I introduce my son and heir to House Blackwood, Brynden.”

Even if Tytos hadn’t introduced him as his son, Jon could have guessed it from the resemblance the two of them shared, although the younger Blackwood had shorter hair and was clean-shaven.

Brynden bowed his head to him, and looked shocked when Jon extended his hand to him in return, seemingly surprised that a king would agree to shake his hand.

“Lord Tytos, it is an honour to meet you,” Jon said courteously, turning back to the lord. “I know how you fought for my brother Robb during the War of Five Kings, and for that you have not only my personal gratitude, but also that of House Stark.”

“Thank you, King Jon,” Tytos replied, inclining his head once more. “It was an honour to fight beside your brother, and I find myself very lucky to once more fight alongside a Stark king.”

While Jon nodded his understanding and gratitude for the man’s words, he inwardly marvelled over the level of deference that he was still being shown, despite having been king for a while now.

“My lord,” Jon said, turning slightly and indicating towards Dany. “May I introduce our ally, Queen Daenerys Targaryen.”

If Lord Tytos held any reservations or concerns at meeting a Targaryen, he didn’t show it. At Jon’s words, he bowed his head to her out of courtesy, although not as deeply as he had towards Jon.

“It is a pleasure, Your Grace,” the man said, as he looked towards her.

“For me too, my lord,” Dany said, smiling widely towards him.

As Dany and Lord Tytos introduced themselves, Jon diverted his attention to the second party. Lord Jonos was continuing to look at Tytos with contempt. Jon knew that this meeting would be tenser, as the Brackens had bent the knee to the Iron Throne after the Red Wedding, only turning their back on it recently.

“Lord Bracken,” Jon said, heading over to the man, who finally averted his eyes from the Blackwoods and looking at Jon, his anger and hatred swiftly hidden. “You too have my thanks for fighting alongside my brother.”

As Jon and Lord Bracken shook hands, he heard Lord Tytos say something, ostensibly a whisper yet it was completely audible to all within earshot.

“A shame about your cowardice in bending the knee to the Lannisters.”

_Shit!_ Jon inwardly cursed, as he saw Lord Jonos immediately turn to Tytos, looking furious.

“My lords!” Jon said loudly, raising his hands to interrupt any potential conflict. “Enough!”

Both Tytos and Jonos turned to look at Jon, their look of anger at each other not dulling.

“I know that Lord Bracken bent the knee to the Iron Throne after the Red Wedding,” Jon said, hearing Tytos scoff in indignation at the idea. “Just as I know about the feud that exists between your two families.

“But we are fighting a powerful enemy, one that has a large army at their disposal and is well prepared for our arrival. We cannot afford to be at each other’s throats, as that will only serve to aid our enemy.”

The two lords remained silent for a moment at his words. Jon had decided to focus on the more immediate threat of the Lannisters, as the Riverland lords, even more so than their Northern counterparts, would be sceptical of the existence of the White Walkers.

“My lords,” Jon continued. “When Queen Daenerys and I were building our alliance, we didn’t trust each other very much at first. There has been a lot of tension between the Houses of Targaryen and Stark since the reign of Aerys.

“While our conflict has not been around for as long as yours, the fact that we were able to put it aside in the face of our common enemy, is proof that you two can do the same.”

The two lords looked between each other, with none of their mutual distaste leaving their faces, before looking back to Jon, who merely held their gaze, looking expectant. While Jon couldn’t claim to be an expert in the conflict between the two houses, with only a basic knowledge of the reasons that had caused it, he was sure that whatever it was, it paled in comparison to what they were facing, against both the Lannisters and the Night King.

There was a momentary pause before Lord Tytos, after meeting Jon’s eye, nodded his agreement. Jon felt a rush of satisfaction, before turning to Lord Bracken, whose face was contorting in anger.

“And you, Lord Bracken?” Jon enquired, raising an eyebrow.

Jon could see that the man’s anger was not entirely about Lord Blackwood now, and he could guess at the reason. Now that Blackwood had agreed to put their hostilities on hold for the time being, and especially in front of their king, if he chose to continue their feud, his already precarious position after kneeling to the Lannisters would be weakened even further.

After a few tense moments, Lord Bracken nodded his head, so minutely that it was almost undetectable.

Jon nodded again, more forcefully.

“Thank you, my lords,” Jon said. “I understand that it can be hard to look past these kinds of grievances. I am not asking you to forget them. Just to lay them aside for now, until our wars are won.”

Both lords nodded again, with Lord Bracken being a little more enthusiastic this time, knowing that their rivalry could and, Jon knew, most likely _would_ resume after their battles had been won.

_If,_ Jon thought morosely. _If we manage to not only defeat the Lannisters, but also the army of the dead as well_ , _whose numbers are unknown to us._

“Thank you, my lords,” Jon said. “We shall rest here for the night, and continue onto Harrenhal at first light.”

As both of the lords left, not even bothering to glare in each other’s direction this time, Jon could see the procession behind them begin to dismount from their horses and begin to make camp.

After a moment, Dany came up alongside him.

“Well,” she said, with a small smirk. “Those two clearly do not get along.”

“That is putting it mildly,” Jon laughed, as he met her eye.

“What caused this hatred between them?” she asked curiously, as her purple eyes looked out over the two camps, divided by a wide chasm.

“No one really knows, as their feud goes back to before Aegon conquered the kingdoms,” Jon explained, seeing a look of surprise cross her face at this. “Although the Brackens claim that the Blackwoods were once their vassals, who betrayed them.”

“And the Blackwoods?”

“They say that the Brackens were minor lords that hired men to usurp them.”

“So, what is the truth?” She asked, raising her eyebrows.

Jon merely shrugged in response, chuckling slightly.

Dany scoffed slightly at this, with a disapproving shake of her head.

“So, both of these men are content to continue this feud, despite neither of them agreeing on, or even _knowing_ , what they are fighting over?”

“It would seem so,” Jon replied, looking out at the two camps.

Dany didn’t respond at first, merely shaking her head slightly in disbelief.

“Well, regardless,” she said, turning to him. “I think that we should keep them separated while we march, and especially while we camp at Harrenhal.”

“Agreed,” Jon said. “Although by the look of it, they will try and keeping themselves separated on their own, without our help.”

Dany nodded and the two of them began to head over to where their forces were beginning to decamp, with Jon making a mental note to speak with Davos about what houses should be placed between Bracken and Blackwood in their procession.

*

A couple of days later they caught sight of Harrenhal and Jon felt a laugh of shock and disbelief escape him at the sight, and could hear Dany making similar noises to his right.

Even in its dilapidated state, the once colossal keep was still impressive and dwarfed the size of Winterfell. The five towers that loomed high above them were bent and ruined from the dragon fire that had been rained upon them by Aegon Targaryen and Balerion the Dread.

Jon looked to his side and saw Dany looking up at the keep with an expression of both awe and, if he was seeing correctly, fear on her face.

Just as Jon was about to speak, confused over the look on her face, she spoke.

“So, this is what my dragons could do?” she asked, in a hushed voice. “Burn men in their keep, and melt the stone around them.”

“You could,” Jon said, before heading over to her. “But that doesn’t mean that you _have_ to.”

Dany paused for a moment, and Jon could see her eyes looking over all of the keep’s melted and twisted towers and walls, the damage that Aegon had caused all those centuries ago.

She then nodded slightly, with a grim look on her face, before ushering her mount forward towards the gate, which Jon was surprised to see was wide open. As they entered the keep, they could see that it was abandoned. However, from the looks of things, like the tents and the embers of various fires that were dotted around the colossal courtyard, it had been fled only recently.

Tormund ordered some of his men forward, to check if there was an ambush lying in wait for them inside the keep. A group of around twenty men entered the keep, through the colossal main doors that had been left ajar. As the men went out of sight, Jon and the others remained in the courtyard, turning their heads to take in every aspect of the sight before them.

“Why would these Lannister give up this place?” Tormund said, looking around.

“They likely only released it after our capture of Riverrun,” Davos said, as he examined one of the now burned out campfires.

“But why?” Tormund asked, and Jon could sense the confusion.

“People think that Harrenhal is haunted by the ghosts of Harren the Black and his sons,” Jon explained. “The Lannisters were likely already unnerved by being here, but hearing that three dragons were on their way here, which had been destroyed by a single dragon, was likely enough.”

There was a beat of silence after Jon’s words, which was only broken by the whistling of the wind through the gaps in the ruined towers and walls. Looking around him, Jon was in awe by the size and scale of the keep. He remembered Maester Luwin teaching them about its construction while he was a child, hearing how Harren the Black had ordered it to be built and had depleted most of Riverlands in doing so and, seeing it in person, Jon could well believe it to be true.

The sound of hurried footsteps on the stone caused everyone to turn towards it, and they saw one of Tormund’s men, who had entered the keep moments before, making his way towards them.

“We’ve found the Lannister commander,” he said to Tormund.

“Where is he?” Jon asked, as he dismounted and headed over to the man.

“He is in the main hall,” the man replied, and there was an ominous note to his voice that caught Jon’s interest.

The men led them inside the keep, with Jon shaking his head as they saw that the interior was just as oversized as the exterior. As they headed through a massive doorway into the main hall, Jon’s eyes widened and let out a gasp of shock.

The main hall of Harrenhal made its counterpart in Winterfell look cramped in comparison. The walls were lined with over two dozen hearths, and Jon could tell from the size of the room that this could entertain a small army.

As he looked around briefly, Jon was a little confused when he couldn’t see the commander that the Wilding had spoken of, with only the man’s armour discarded in the middle of the floor. However, something next to it caught Jon’s attention, and he was startled when he recognised it to be a pool of blood.

“Oh fuck,” Tormund said softly from his side, accompanied by a gasp of shock from Dany.

Jon turned to them and saw them both looking up towards the ceiling, directly above where the pool of blood was. He followed their gaze and saw the commander, hanging from the rafters. Jon could see that the man had been stripped to his undershirt, which was stained with the blood that was leaking from several large wounds in his chest and dripping down onto the floor below.

Suddenly, the abandonment of Harrenhal made a lot more sense.

“They didn’t abandon the place,” Jon muttered, and he walked slowly towards where the man hung. “The men mutinied and killed him.”

“Out of fear of us,” Dany whispered, and Jon could see her still looking up at the hanging man, with a look of sadness on her face.

Jon sighed deeply. He was finding it hard to not to feel a sense of pity and understanding for the man. While he was fighting for the Lannisters, their enemy, Jon was not so naïve or narrow minded to think that just because he fought for the Lannisters that he despised them.

As Jon looked up at the man’s blood soaked and tattered shirt, he remembered when he had been betrayed by his men, the searing pain as half a dozen daggers were thrust into his chest and gut. He understood the feelings of fear and betrayal that the man must have had, when he saw these men that he had been with turn against him.

Rubbing his chest absent-mindedly, where the scars from his betrayal still marked his flesh, Jon turned to Tormund’s man.

“Cut him down,” he said, before looking back up at him. “And burn his body.”

While the man looked at Jon like he was insane for a moment, clearly surprised by his compassion for an enemy, he followed his instructions after sharing a look with Tormund. Jon could see that the wildling wasn’t the only one surprised by this, as he could also see that Dany was looking at him of the corner of his eye, although her confused look quick changed into a knowing one. However, none of them challenged him on it, which he was grateful for, as he was in no mood to explain his decision

As the wildings set to work in cutting down the commander, Jon turned and left the room to oversee the establishment of their camp within the walls as they awaited the rest of the Riverlands’ forces, feeling the eyes of everyone in the room on him.

*

They stayed at Harrenhal for just under a week, with various Riverlands houses arriving by the day. While Jon was initially surprised by the fact that their armies seemed to be rather small, it didn’t take him long to work out the reason for it.

Aside from the North, the Riverlands had been one of the regions that had been most affected by the War of Five Kings, as a vast majority of the battles had been fought on its soil. Because of this, it had seen a considerable depletion in its fighting men, as well as a lot of destruction to its countryside.

Jon had spent a lot of the week with his thoughts consumed by the location of the Lannister deserters. While he was convinced that the vast majority of them will head back to their homes, either in the Westerlands or elsewhere, he had a suspicion that some of them would turn to banditry, with the ravaged and weakened Riverlands being a prime target.

Jon had sent out scouts but, other than a few small rag-tag bandit groups, there was no sign of any Lannisters among them. While this should have brought him some comfort, he couldn’t find it easy to forget about the potential of well-armed bandits attacking the smallfolk of the Riverlands, particularly as the bulk of their fighting men was about to march south.

An idea had come to him the day before they were due to leave, when he had been called to intervene in a conflict that had erupted within the camp, caused by the ever-present tensions between Houses Blackwood and Bracken. Knowing that this was likely to be a recurring problem if he were to bring them both with him, Jon decided to leave the forces of House Bracken, along with a few other small houses, behind at Harrenhal, in order to keep the peace in their absence and to hopefully root out any Lannister deserters that still remained nearby.

While Lord Jonos hadn’t been pleased by this decision, Jon was sure of his choice. While House Bracken forces were greater in number than those commanded by Lord Tytos, his presence was more likely to incite the men, as his bending of the knee to the Lannisters was well known among them all, and the vast majority of them despised that decision. Also having a sizeable force at Harrenhal could only help in their effort to weed out any trouble in the region.

It had taken several conversations, as well a subtle reminder that this was a command rather than an invitation, for Lord Jonos to agree begrudgingly with Jon’s plan. The man was still scowling about it even as they departed from the keep, in stark contrast to the grin that covered Lord Tytos’ face as he rode away from his hated rival.

When they left Harrenhal they began to make their way east, towards Duskendale, after one of Jon’s scouts had returned with the news that there was a sizable Lannister encampment within its wall, bolstering the forces of House Rykker.

On their way, they came across several small groups of Lannister scouts, no doubt set out from Duskendale to check on the advance of the Northern forces. While they had managed to deal with the majority of them, Jon knew that the forces in Duskendale would no doubt be anticipating their attack as, not only had a few of them escaped before they could be dealt with, but Jon was sure that there were likely several scouts that they had not even seen.

Jon’s suspicion was proven true a few days later, when the form of Duskendale appeared on the horizon, with its gates raised and all of the men secured inside.

“So, that’s why we haven’t see many of the fuckers,” Tormund said, with a small chuckle. “They’ve been hiding behind their wall.”

“A wall that we have to get past,” Davos reminded him.

Jon let their discussion run past him, focusing his attention on the town in the distance. Its large stone walls would be difficult to breach, despite their siege equipment, so Jon quickly realised that their best chance could be to attack the gate itself. However, this would leave their men vulnerable to attack from above, from arrows, thrown rocks or oil.

Jon’s eyes drifted upwards, to the flags that were flying over the walls, showing the golden lion of the Lannisters, as well as the crossed black warhammers of House Rykker.

“Call Gendry,” Jon said, cutting through Tormund and Davos’ discussion.

As they were shocked into silence, Jon heard one of the men behind them hurry off, to follow his command.

“What are you thinking, Jon?” Dany asked him, moving over to him.

“House Rykker swear their allegiance to House Baratheon,” Jon explained, meeting her eyes. “It is time to see if they will follow Robert’s last surviving son.”

At that moment, the sound of hooves from behind them drew their attention. Jon and the others turned to see Gendry heading towards them, looking confused at the summons.

“What’s happening?” he asked, as he came to a stop alongside them.

“The Lannisters are holed up in the town,” Jon explained, as he turned back towards Duskendale. “It is the seat of House Rykker, who are sworn to the Baratheons. We are going to send terms of surrender soon, and tell them that you are with us and have been legitimised. We will then see how loyal they were to your father.”

“Do you really think that will work?” Gendry asked, sounding unconvinced.

“There is only one way to know.”

Jon caught Dany’s eye and raised his eyebrows, silently asking for her opinion on the matter. After a moment, she nodded briefly.

“When we send the messenger, we should send our three sigils,” Dany said. “To show that the Targaryens, Starks and Baratheons are working together. It might help to convince those inside to surrender.”

Jon considered it for a moment, before nodding his approval, impressed by the suggestion. After sharing a proud smirk with Dany, Jon turned to begin the preparations.

Soon after their messenger had ridden down the hill, under a flag of truce, accompanied by three other men, each of whom holding a standard bearing a different sigil. As the Targaryen dragon, the Stark wolf and the Baratheon stag faded into the distance, Jon took a deep breath as they began their wait.

This was something that was becoming a regular occurrence for them, and a part of this war that he hadn’t fully anticipated until it had begun. Between the hours waiting at their siege of Riverrun, both for their terms to be accepted and then for morning to allow Davos and the others into the keep, and the time they would spend here, they had spent more time waiting than they had fighting. And, while Jon wasn’t sorry about the lack of fighting, having done so for most of his adult life, he was finding it a little strange.

It was over an hour after the gates shut behind their men that there was any movement at all from the keep. Jon heard and felt everyone who was watching tense up at the sight of the gate opening and their four men exiting the keep once more.

Any relief that they felt was dimmed slightly as the men grew closer, and they saw that one of the standards had been set aflame. Sighing deeply, Jon shook his head.

“Well, it looked like they have given us their answer.”

As the men approached them, Jon saw that it was the Targaryen banner that had been torched. Jon looked over to Dany and saw her looking at it with an angry expression. Looking over to the other sigils he saw that the Baratheon one had simply been removed from its standard and that the head of the Stark wolf was missing, with there now being a jagged hole in its place where it had crudely been cut out. Next to it was a small message, written hastily in a very poor hand.

Walking towards it, Jon could see everyone turning to watch his progress. It was only when he got closer that he saw what it said, and felt his blood boil in his veins and his heart begin to race.

_Just like your father, bastard._

As Jon stared at the message, feeling his blood thundering through his body, he could hear the shocked words of the others as they saw the defacement of the sigil.

“Cunts.” Jon heard Tormund growl.

“Jon,” came a soft voice in his ear, and he saw Dany looking at him with concern, and felt her hand close around his elbow.

“I’m fine,” he said curtly, before turning to the messenger.

“Who did this?” he demanded, trying to keep his anger from his voice.

“We delivered the message to the Lannister commander, Your Grace,” the messenger said, as the man holding the Targaryen banner dropped it to the ground, where it burned out on the dirt. “They are being led by Lord Roland Crakehall and his two sons. I heard him call them Tybolt and Lyle.”

“Lyle Crakehall,” Lord Tytos muttered from the side. “The Strongboar. A formidable fighter to be sure, Your Grace.”

“I take it they have rejected our terms?” Dany asked, looking down at the smouldering ashes of the Targaryen sigil.

“Yes, Your Grace,” the man said. “One of the sons spat on the floor at the very mention of the idea that they should surrender to us.”

“What happened to my sigil?” Gendry asked, looking at the empty standard.

“My lord,” the man said, looking a little uncomfortable. “One of the Crakehall sons, I think it was Tybolt, ripped it down, saying that there are ‘no more true Baratheons.’”

“Well,” Gendry said, with a shrug. “Can’t expect anything more than that from the Lannisters.”

“Then it is settled,” Jon said, before turning to Dany and Gendry. “We will have to attack the city.”

“How are we going to do that?” Dany asked, as she walked towards him. Her tone was curious rather than accusatory, like she wanted to hear his plan rather than questioning if he even had one.

“The gates will be the weak point,” Jon explained. “Our siege weapons might be able to breach the wall, but it would take far longer.

“The only problem is that we will be at the mercy of those who are atop the wall.”

“Any ideas for dealing with them?” Tormund asked.

“I have three,” Jon replied, looking up at the dragons, circling overhead.

“Jon,” Dany said, looking shocked. “I don’t think-”

“Dany,” Jon interrupted, taking a step towards her and looking her in the eye. “I know that you don’t want to use the dragons against the Lannister soldiers, as many have been forced to be here, but if we don’t in this situation then I am not confident of our victory.”

Dany remained in silence at his words, averting her eyes from his own to look up at her dragons before turning to Duskendale. Jon too remained in silence, knowing that he was asking for a lot, not only to be putting her children in danger but asking her to do something that he knew that she had clearly struggled with at the siege at Riverrun.

“Is there no other way?” Dany asked sadly, looking at the keep in the distance.

“I don’t think so,” Jon replied.

Dany sighed deeply at this, before nodding her head slowly.

“Very well,” she said, meeting Jon’s eye again.

“They will only need to eliminate the threats atop the wall,” Jon reassured her. “Those men and any ballistae or catapults they have up there. Once that is done, they can leave the men inside to our army.”

Dany nodded again, looking a little more reassured. Jon then turned to the messenger.

“Thank you for delivering our message, friend,” Jon said, nodding his head gratefully to the man. “Before you get some rest, I would like you to find Black Rat and send him to us.”

The messenger then nodded and headed off into the camp, clearly heading towards where the Unsullied had positioned themselves, their tents set up in tightly regimented rows. Jon watched the man’s departure with the suspicion that they were in for a long night of planning their assault on the town.

*

The following morning, as the sun rose on the horizon, Jon stood at the head of their army, dressed for battle. He looked over his shoulder and saw the men moving into formation, the Northmen and Riverlands men grouping themselves with the Unsullied to form the phalanx formations that had been so effective at Riverrun.

Despite being so far away, Jon could just about see some vague shapes moving around on top of the walls of Duskendale, looking no bigger than spots at this distance, clearly preparing for their advance.

Jon heard someone approaching from behind him and turned towards the sound, seeing Tormund making his way towards him.

“The men are nearly ready,” Tormund said, as he stopped next to Jon.

“How are you feeling about this plan?” Jon asked, not averting his eyes from the town.

Tormund let out a small chuckle and Jon could see, out of the corner of his eye, the Wildling turn towards him, his scar stretching as his head moved.

“Your plans are always fucking mad!” he laughed, clapping a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “At Winterfell. At Dragonstone. And yet you always managed to see us through to the other side, so I have a feeling that you will do it again now.”

Jon finally turned to meet his friend’s eyes and couldn’t stop a smirk from crossing his mouth at his praise, despite being unsure whether he deserved it.

“King Jon,” came a vaguely familiar voice from behind him and Jon turned to see Black Rat, Grey Worm’s second-in-command and the commander of Dany’s Unsullied forces in his absence. “Our men are ready.”

Jon nodded, taking a deep breath to calm his now-jangling nerves, now that they were on the cusp of battle, and turned away from Duskendale and began to head down towards their army.

As Jon’s boots crunched on the frosty grass underfoot, he looked at the faces of the men in front of him, all of whom had looks of either resignation that they had no power over what they were facing or grim determination to see themselves to the other side of the conflict.

Hearing a loud screech to his left, Jon turned to see Dany standing with her three dragons and immediately, and without much thought, turned to make his way over toads her. As he got closer to her, he could see that her hair had been tightly braided behind her head, to prevent it blowing into her face while she flew astride Drogon. She had also wearing an outfit more akin to leather armour than she was normally accustomed to, clearly to provide some protection against the potential for arrows heading her way from the archers perched on the walls.

Jon couldn’t stop a smile crossing his face at the sight of her, marvelling at the fact that even now, dressed for battle and standing in front of her three colossal dragons, she could still be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

As he grew closer, Rhaegal let out a small roar and made his way towards Jon, closing the gap in only a few steps, due to his size. As the dragon lowered his head towards him, fixing him with his bronze eyes, Jon’s face broke into a wide smile, realising how fond he had become of the dragon in this short space of time.

“Be careful, boy,” Jon said, as he patted the dragon’s scaly snout. He didn’t know If this was the way to address a dragon, but he had done the same with Ghost for years and had decided to do the same with Rhaegal. “Keep your mother safe.”

Rhaegal let out a low, rumbling growl, seemingly in agreement and understanding at his words, as he let Jon stroke his nose. Jon looked up briefly and saw Dany looking over at them with a warm smile, which he returned.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw something large and white move alongside him and turned to see Ghost sitting on his haunches, his red eyes fixed onto the dragon in front of him. Jon placed his hand on top of his head, seeing Ghost’s eyes closing slightly as Jon began to pet him.

Ghost and Rhaegal, while thankfully not openly hostile, were very wary around each other, with them backing away from the other if they made a sudden move. Rhaegal turned his head towards Ghost, and Jon could see both of their noses twitching as they caught each other’s scent.

Jon smirked as he watched the two of them regard each other warily, still petting Ghost. He had decided to leave the wolf behind in the camp rather than bring him into the battle. As most of it would be fought in the cobbled streets of the city, likely to be both cramped and with many intersecting alleys and roads that could be used for ambushes, it would very dangerous for Ghost who, despite being fearsome in a fight, would be completely unprotected against the Lannister men, who would be heavily armed and armoured.

After a moment, Rhaegal, clearly growing tired of his staring match with Ghost, turned and headed back over to his mother and siblings. Ghost watched him leave, his body tense and not averting his eyes. Jon shook his head in mild exasperation, with a smile on his face, at his wolf’s actions

“Stay safe, boy,” Jon said, causing Ghost to turn towards him and cock his head to one side as he listened.

Ghost nudged at the palm of his hand with his nose, and gave a low whine, clearly annoyed at being left behind again.

There was the sound of a horn from behind him and Jon saw all of the men still needing to get into position hurrying into their formation. After a final pat on the head to Ghost, Jon continued on his way over to Dany, who was just about to mount onto Drogon.

As Jon reached them, Drogon shifted slightly to look at him and growled slightly, causing Dany to look at what was causing him to react like this, a smile appearing on her face when her eyes found him.

There was a brief pause between them, before he took a further step towards her.

“Be safe, my Queen,” Jon said, reaching out and taking her hand in his.

Dany looked down at their linked hands, before raising her purple eyes to his own and smiling warmly at him.

“And you, my King,” she said quietly.

They stayed that way for along moment, their hands linked and looking into each other’s eyes, but didn’t have time for a longer goodbye as another horn sounded, and Jon knew that before long it would be him holding up the beginning their attack. After a sharing firm nod of understanding, the two of them relinquished each other’s hands, and Jon made his way over to the phalanx at the front of their forces, where Tormund stood waiting for him.

As he grew close, he heard a command be shouted out in Valyrian and a gap opened in the Unsullied shield wall. As Jon walked inside, Tormund at his side, he saw Black Rat, waiting with his helm in his hand. Standing behind him, Jon gave the man a reassuring pat on the shoulder, knowing that this was the first time that he had been in sole command of the Unsullied forces.

He had taken command of the beach defence back on Dragonstone, but then not only had Grey Worm still been on the island, and able to retake command if things had gotten increasingly dire, but he had been under the overall command of Randyll Tarly, with all plans of strategy being left to him.

He didn’t have either luxury today.

As the Unsullied put on his helm, he gave another command in Valyrian and the wall reformed so that, once the Northern tower shields were lifted above their heads, the fighters were enveloped in darkness, with only a few beams of light showing in the small gaps between the shields, the thickness and locations of which changed as the men moved.

There were a few moments pause, which seemed to last forever, with the only sounds being the shifting of the men, deep breaths being taken and muttered prayers to the Old Gods and the New for their victory, with Jon himself even muttering his own prayer to the Old Gods.

Finally, Jon heard the drums begin, signalling the beginning of their advance.

Black Rat gave another command and the Unsullied began to move, with the men inside the phalanx moving forward within the confines. Jon found it a peculiar experience, marching forward but only being able to move as fast the Unsullied in front of him, without barging into the back of them. Not only that but he was also finding himself being jostled around among the Northmen that he was penned in with, clashing elbows with Tormund more than once.

As they marched, there was not only the sound of hundreds of marching feet, mixed with a few far-off screeches from the dragons, but the overpowering rumblings sound of their ram, rolling along beside their phalanx on its dozen large wooden wheels.

“For fuck’s sake!” Tormund exclaimed suddenly, as he, in the near darkness, placed his boot in a pool of muddy water and, in his effort to both pull his boot free and keep the pace of the march, fall sideways into the Unsullied.

Luckily, he managed to right himself quickly, and the Unsullied were barely moved by the large Wildling falling into them. Jon had to struggle to not do something similar not long after, grunting as his boot collided with a rock and he stumbled into Tormund who, seemingly expecting something after his own misfortune, managed to keep Jon upright and he soon straightened back up.

The marched on for what seemed like over an hour, even though Jon was sure that it couldn’t have been that long, with their progress hard to determine. Eventually, Jon’s impatience got the better of him and he moved forward and placed himself just behind two of the Unsullied that formed the front of the phalanx. As he looked over their shoulders, and between a gap in their shields, he saw that they were getting close to the Duskendale gate.

At that moment, there was the far-off sound of a catapult releasing and then, a few moments later, the impact of whatever projectile that it had fired. By the way that the ground had shook on impact, Jon could tell that it had landed nearby.

“We’ve lost a phalanx!” came a voice from behind Jon.

As their phalanx increased their pace, in order to close the distance to their destination, Jon realised that their catapults were likely firing large rocks or even broken pieces of masonry for it to have taken out a whole, or more likely the majority of, phalanx of men.

As they marched on, there was suddenly the ear-splitting boom of their ram beginning its assault on the gate, accompanied by the creaking of wood and metal under the pressure. In the lull between each blow from the ram, Jon could hear more catapults and ballistae being released from above them. However, this time, although they could still hear and feel the impact of their landing, there was not the same ground-shaking impact that from one landing so close to them.

The sounds from the ram grew louder as they grew, so that every clash against the gate was ringing through Jon’s ears, and yet they did nothing to drown out the screeches of the dragons overhead, or the rumbling of their flame as they unleashed it upon the defenders.

Jon looked upwards in spite of himself, knowing that there was no way that that he would catch a glimpse of what was happening thanks to the roof of tower shields protecting their heads. However, as if to answer his mental request, a small chink opened between the tower shields above his heads.

While he only had a tiny window to look through, he could see the shape of two dragons hovering alongside the tall walls, pouring fire onto the battlements. He recognised them instantly as Drogon and Rhaegal, from their black and green scales respectively, with Viserion’s pale form nowhere to be seen.

Suddenly there were dozens of small thuds as a volley of arrows smashed into their phalanx, piercing through the wooden tower shields above them. One of them thudded into the shield to the left of Jon, its point just piercing through the wood and aiming towards his face. While it didn’t come anywhere near to him, Jon still recoiled sharply.

However, one of the men behind Jon wasn’t so lucky. One of the arrows had gone through a small chink the shields and had embedded itself into the man’s throat, spilling blood down his front as he died. Jon watched the man drop with a sinking feeling in his gut.

“Get to the wall!” Jon roared, and the Unsullied picked up their pace.

Jon hoped that by doing so they would be out of range for any of their archers, who would be unwilling to hang over the battlements in the hope of getting a shot at them, especially with their shields.

Before long, their phalanx had reached the wall and had all flattened themselves single-file against it, to the left of the gate which was still enduring its pummelling from the ram. They stood with their shields still held above their heads, to protect against any falling objects. Jon looked over the field which they had just travelled, which was littered with several large stones, clearly the projectiles from the catapults.

There were dozens of phalanxes still making their ways towards them, with only a few lying broken and scattered over the field. These groups of men were still being plagued by archer’s volleys, but it seemed like Dany and her dragons had destroyed most of the siege equipment, as there were no further attacks from catapults.

Jon looked to either side of him, up and down the line of men, and saw both Tormund and Gendry there, their backs flat against the wall and clutching at their weapons in readiness.

With an almighty crash, the ram finally breached the gate, sending it flying inwards.

The men instantly ran towards the breach, and as they ran, they could see that some of the phalanxes had made it to the other side of the gate and had done similarly to them. As Jon made his way forwards, he drew Longclaw from its place at his belt, and took a deep breath, steeling his nerves for the battle ahead.

As Jon followed the men, and passed through the arch where the gate had once stood, he saw that there were countless men awaiting them on the other side, the majority of them bearing the sigil of House Rykker, standing alongside dozens of crimson clad Lannister soldiers. 

The Unsullied instantly moved to the forefront of the attackers, forming a shield wall. Despite the inopportune time, Jon couldn’t help but marvel once more at the sense of unity and companionship that these men had with each other. They instantly knew what was the best tactic to use in any given situation and immediately sprung into action, without any disagreements over either the plan or its implementation.

“Brace!” Jon shouted, as he raced to the Unsullied to form a secondary line.

Jon was soon joined by the other men, with Tormund and Gendry on either side of him.

“Push forward!” Jon roared, hearing Black Rat calling out to the Unsullied in Valyrian, which he recognised despite not understanding, and Jon presumed that the commander must be translating for him.

The Unsullied began to move forward once step at a time. Some of the Lannister forces, not content to wait, rushed at the Unsullied line. However, these men, completely isolated from the bulk of their allies, were swiftly repelled with a few synchronised spear thrusts from the Unsullied.

As the attacking forces advanced, forcing the Lannister forces back with spear thrusts and pushing forward with their shields, they were constantly being reinforced as the phalanxes reached the gate. As their forces grew, Jon could see that their enemies grew more and more reluctant to attack and they started to back away rather than advance as the numbers swiftly started to even out.

Suddenly, another Rykker man appeared from down a small side street and shouted something to the other men, something that Jon couldn’t hear above the sound of a sword hitting the shield of the Unsullied in front of him.

The Rykker men, on the other hand, did hear whatever the man had said. Jon was shocked to see all of the Rykker men immediately turn away from the battle and head back into the town, leaving the remaining Lannister men at the gate woefully outnumbered.

As the Unsullied increased their pace towards the remaining men, pressing their new advantage of numbers, it only took moments before the Lannisters realised that they were not only completely outmatched but that they would likely be slaughtered if they remained here.

The Lannister forces broke and followed the Rykker men, back into the town, splitting off down the various side street and narrow alleys.

There was a roar of victory from the men behind Jon, as the Unsullied shield wall broke to allow them through and they gave chase through the streets. Jon looked over his shoulder and saw that the vast majority of their forces had made it to the gate and were pouring through.

Looking up, Jon couldn’t see or hear any sign of the dragons continuing their assault on the battlements, so he assumed that Dany had completely destroyed the weaponry atop the walls. His assumption was seemingly proven to be true when he looked back through the shattered gate, over the heads of the thronging crowd and saw a section of mounted troops riding down to join them.

Smiling at the success of part of his plan, Jon turned and, with Tormund following closely behind him, gave chase to the Lannisters. He wasn’t so naïve to think that they had them on the run already, as the bulk of their forces were likely being kept behind, the squares and courtyards of the towns.

Jon headed down a narrow side street, hearing Tormund’s footsteps on the cobbled stones behind him as they ran. There were lots of small windows along the walls as they passed, and Jon thought that he could see faces in some of them, peering out at what was happening.

Jon prayed that the men would follow his and Dany’s command: that no innocent civilian in the town was to be harmed, under any circumstances.

Suddenly Jon saw a blade coming towards him out of the corner of his eye, coming from a small alleyway connecting onto the path they were travelling. Jon immediately brought Longclaw up to parry the blade, causing the point of the blade to smash into the stone wall behind him. The impact of the blade causing Jon’s ears to ring, and shower him in stone dust from the blow.

He saw that the blade belonged to a Lannister man who, despite looking surprised at Jon’s quick reflexes in deflecting his blow, looking ready to continue his attack. Jon began to back away, parrying the man’s strikes as he did so. As the two of them fought, their blades would often connect with the walls on either side of them, causing stone dust and sparks to fill the air between them.

Looking over the man’s shoulder, Jon saw that Tormund was facing off against two other Lannisters. Gritting his teeth, Jon refocused his attention on his opponent, waiting for him to make a mistake that he could capitalise on.

Luckily, it didn’t take that long.

Clearly growing frustrated with Jon constantly parrying and blocking his every strike, the Lannister man attempted a savage swing that would, if it connected, remove Jon’s arm.

Jon side-stepped the swing, at the same time deflecting the blade downwards so that it crashed into the floor. Jon then trapped the blade under his boot and, before the man could drop the hilt of his sword to grab at the dagger at his hip, he swung Longclaw sideways into the man’s helm.

While it didn’t pierce the metal, it did leave a deep dent. Jon could see the man’s eyes rolling his head, and knew that the blow must have concussed him, at the very least. Without waiting any more, Jon switched Longclaw into his left hand and, after using his right to grab hold of the man’s helm and hold his head still, thrust his blade through the slit for his eyes and out the back of the man’s head.

As he pulled Longclaw free from the man’s head, and he dropped dead to the ground, Jon looked over to Tormund and saw that he was on the back foot, with the Lannister men pressing their advantage of numbers, so he raced over to aid his friend.

When he reached them, one of the Lannister men had his back to him, but he had clearly heard Jon’s approach, as he turned towards him and swung his own blade towards his head. Jon ducked under the blow and simultaneously swung Longclaw, slashing off the man’s leg.

The man howled in pain and he crumpled to the ground on his front. Jon embedded Longclaw through the man’s back, putting him out of his misery. He turned back to Tormund in time to see the Wildling slash open the Lannister man’s throat, sending a spurt of blood over the cobblestones.

“Come on, Tormund!” Jon called, as he turned and continued to run on.

They raced down the alley until it opened up and they found themselves in a small square, that was curiously abandoned apart from a small group of fighters in the distance, and two Lannister men that were closer to them.

As Jon and Tormund entered the square, the two Lannisters saw them and ran over to them. Tormund gave a loud laugh and began to engage one of them in combat, while the other, this one wielding a spear, heading for Jon. Jon took hold of the hilt of Longclaw with both hands, readying himself, knowing that facing a man with a spear was incredibly risky and if he made a single mistake he would be dead.

The man lunged with his spear few times, with Jon parrying them away, accompanied by the sound of the wood scraping on metal. The man thrust his spear forwards, towards Jon’s chest, who was momentarily shocked by the speed that the man showed. He manged to raise Longclaw just in time to parry the spear away from his chest, but he only served in deflecting it towards his arm, where it cut into his bicep.

Jon grunted in pain and staggered backwards slightly, not taking his eyes off the Lannister, expecting another attack. Jon frantically checked the damage to his arm with his fingers. Luckily it didn’t seem like he had been stabbed with the point of the spear, only slashed with the edge. While it certainly hurt enough, and was currently bleeding freely down his left arm, it was not as serious as it could have been.

Jon straightened up slightly and, after gritting his teeth against the pain in his arm, raised his blade once more.

The man lunged towards Jon’s chest once more. This time, Jon, expecting the man to try something similar, spun out of the way, deflecting the spear away from him at the same time. As Jon turned to face the man, he took Longclaw in both hands and swung it towards his opponent, decapitating him.

Jon looked over and saw that Tormund had already dispatched of his enemy. The two of them met each other’s eye and nodded grimly, before turning back to the square, walking towards the group of fighters off in the distance. As they got closer to them, Jon recognised that it was Ser Jorah Mormont facing off against several Lannisters.

Just as Jon and Tormund sped up even more, ready to aid their ally, they watched as Jorah dispatched of his opponents. He ducked under one blade while simultaneously severing the wielders leg, before standing up and, after parrying another blow, opening the other man’s gut.

Jon and Tormund shared a look, both impressed by the elder man’s skill with a blade. As the two Lannister men fell to the ground, he turned towards them with his blade raised, clearly hearing their footsteps and anticipating another attack. However, once he saw who it was, his blade lowered slightly.

“King Jon,” Jorah said, panting in exertion. Now they were closer, Jon could see the sweat that was running in rivulets down his face.

“You are injured,” Jorah continued, nodding towards Jon’s arm.

“It’s nothing,” Jon said, waving his hand dismissively. “We need to regroup with our men.”

Just as the other two were agreeing with him, there was the sound of boots on the cobblestones. Jon spun around to see that there were Lannister men pouring into the square, from all directions.

“Shit!” Tormund said, as he too spun around, looking in all directions.

_Ambush,_ Jon cursed, as he watched around a dozen men begin to encircle them.

Jon, Tormund and Jorah immediately, and without saying a word to each other, moved to stand back to back in a triangle and readied themselves for a fight. Jon gripped Longclaw in both hands, and adopted the same stance that he had when facing down the Bolton cavalry in the Battle of the Bastards, and he couldn’t help but feel a certain similarity between the situations. Both times he was facing down an enemy that outnumbered him, with no plan on how to get out of it.

Furious with himself for having walked into their ambush, Jon looked around at the men surrounding them. The majority of them were armed with swords, but there were also a couple of them wielding spears, including one that was nearby to Jon. He also noticed that some of them were not bearing the Lannister lion on the front of their armour. He saw the boar of House Crakehall and a unicorn sigil that Jon suspected belonged to House Brax. The men, however, didn’t attack straight away, and Jon suspected that they were trying to instil a sense of helplessness and desperation in them, something that Jon was determined to not happen.

As Jon examined the threats that surrounded them, he was surprised to hear a small chuckle come from Jorah.

“Something funny?” Jon demanded, both angry and completely shocked that he could find anything amusing about their situation.

“No,” Jorah replied, sounding completely serious. “I was just remembering the last time I was in a situation like this, fighting with Grey Worm, and the mercenary Daario, when we took the city of Yunkai. There were a lot more men that time, and we still beat them.”

“But you won’t this time,” snarled one of the Lannister men, as he lunged forward.

As Jorah killed this man, first severing his sword arm, before thrusting his blade into the man’s throat, the other Lannisters attacked, from all directions.

As the three of them began to defend themselves, they quickly fell into a rhythm. The three of them would watch each other’s backs as they fought, helping to defend the others, as long it wouldn’t cost them their lives doing so. Most often it was to defend against a second attacker while one of them was already engaging an enemy, or to deliver the killing blow when one of them had deflected their weapon away, leaving an opening.

One of the Lannister men armed with a spear had moved to engage Jon, who cursed his luck for having to face another of them so soon after being wounded by one. The man thrust his spear towards Jon, who deflected the weapon away from him, up into the air, the momentum of this causing the man to stagger backwards slightly.

Another Lannister man, sensing an opening, attacked.

Jon brought Longclaw around to block the blade just in time, so that their blades clashed mere inches from his face. As their blades locked together for a moment, the two wielders pushed against the other, trying to get some space. Suddenly, Jorah’s blade swung around and cut along the man’s neck, attacking the exposed area between the helm and the start of the man’s chest piece.

The man’s grip on his sword lapsed slightly, and Jon took advantage of this and slashed across the man’s neck, slashing through the thin layer of chain-mail there and cutting his throat. As the man dropped to the floor, Jon saw movement heading towards him and turned in time to see the spear-wielding man was thrusting his weapons towards him once more.

Jon side-stepped the spear just in time, which passed just past him. Struck by an idea, Jon reached out, more in hope than expectation, and grasped hold of the spear. The Lannister man paused in shock for a moment, then began to furious pull at the spear, trying to wrench it from Jon’s grip.

Tormund then swung his blade down, and split the spear in half, leaving the Lannister man wielding only half of the spear’s wooden haft. Tormund then hit the man in the face with the pommel of his blade, causing the man’s head to snap backwards. Jon thrust his own blade in the exposed area under the man’s head, forcing Longclaw up under the man’s chin and out the top of his head.

As this man dropped, Jon and Tormund reformed their triangle, facing the remaining Lannisters. There was now only five men remaining, with the others lying dead on the floor, with five of them lying at the feet of Jorah Mormont. The remaining Lannisters were looking a lot more nervous about the situation that they were in than they had moments ago.

One of the men lunged at Jon, who dodged the blow and sliced off the man’s sword arm before slashing off the man’s head. He then put his foot in the middle of the man’s chest and, before his body fell to the ground, pushed it away and into one of the other remaining Lannisters, who fell to the floor with his ally’s corpse on top of him. Jon stepped forward and stabbed his blade down, plunging Longclaw into the downed enemy’s face.

As Jon turned back to the others, he saw that there were only two Lannister men left, one each fighting Tormund and Jorah. Jon saw Jorah turn his head slightly towards him, who could have sworn he saw a small smirk appear on the man’s face. Suddenly the man he was fighting swung towards him, and Jon was about to call out a warning when Jorah moved with speed that surprised Jon.

He deflected the blow to the side, before reaching out with his free hand and grabbing the wrist of his enemy’s sword-arm. Jorah then pulled the man’s sword from his hand, before hitting the man in the small of the back with the flat of his blade, knocking the man forwards, towards Jon, who slashed downwards with Longclaw, his Valyrian blade cutting through the man’s armour so easily, opening the man’s chest diagonally from shoulder to hip.

Jon turned towards Tormund, who had just dispatched of his foe by slashing off the man’s head. As the man’s body fell, Tormund doubled over slightly, gasping and panting from the exertion. Jon could see that both he and Jorah were clearly showing signs of fatigue. While Jon was certainly beginning to feel some tiredness begin to creep into his movements, he was sure that he would be able to fight on for a few more hours yet.

“Are you two well?” Jon asked, looking between the two of them. “Do you need to rest?”

“Fuck you,” Tormund growled, spitting on the floor before standing up straight. “I’m not so old that I need to rest after very fight.”

“Nor I,” Jorah agreed, rolling his shoulder slightly as he prepared himself for another fight.

“Then keep up,” Jon replied, smirking slightly.

Jon turned and headed off, making his way towards the sounds of battle. The raced down another small side street, the cobblestones of which were slick with blood. Jon’s boots slipped slightly as he ran along, causing him to have to steady himself against the wall to prevent himself from falling face first onto the ground.

They raced through the interconnecting streets and alleys, the sounds of clashing steel and war cries growing louder and louder. They didn’t run across many Lannister soldiers, the only ones they saw had run out of an alley ahead of them before sprinting down the street ahead of them, before disappearing.

They soon caught up with them, and saw that they had run out into the main square of Duskendale which, in contrast to the last square, was thick with fighters. As Jon looked over the square, he heard a satisfied chuckle from Tormund, who darted past him and hurried into the fray.

Jon was initially surprised to see that the Rykker men were fighting against the Lannisters, but he quickly worked out the truth and their men running from the gate made more sense now.

_They must have defected_ , Jon though as he watched a Rykker man thrust his spear through the gut of a Lannister infantryman.

Jon and Jorah ran forwards to enter the fight, immediately being swallowed by the battles, the sound of clashing steel ringing through Jon’s head. As he ran, some men stumbled out in front of his path, and Jon had to check himself several times as he raised his blade to pout it through the man in front of him before seeing that they were either from their army or a Rykker man.

Suddenly a Lannister man lunged out of the throng of men to him, his sword raised above his head, dripping with blood. As the man swung his blade towards Jon’s head, he ducked underneath it, slashing Longclaw along the man’s knee, eliciting a cry of agony from his foe, before standing up straight and stabbing Longclaw through the man’s neck.

As the Lannister man fell to the ground, Jon heard a loud, booming voice roar out, so loud that it rose above the sounds of battle all around him

“Bastard!”

Jon turned and saw a large, brute of a man striding towards him, his face spattered in blood and looking wild as he pointed his blade towards him. As the man got closer to him, Jon could see the boar sigil of House Crakehall on his chest piece, and quickly surmised that this was one of the Crakehall sons that were aiding their father.

As Jon readied himself for fighting this man, a Wildling ran out of the fray and rushed the Crakehall. The Wildling swung his weapon towards the man who effortlessly countered the blow, the force of which wrenched the weapon from the Wildling’s hand. The Crakehall then swung his own blade towards the Wildling, with a loud roar of rage, causing him to drop to his knees, his guts spilling out between his hands.

_This must be Lyle Crakehall,_ Jon realised, as the man continued on his determined path to Jon. _The Strongboar._

When the Strongboar reached Jon, with a growl of rage, he swung his blade towards Jon, who instinctively raised Longclaw to block the blow. When their blades clashed, the force of the Strongboar’s blow made Jon stagger backwards, only just managing to maintain his grip on Longclaw.

Jon stepped back a few steps, keeping his eyes on his foe as he regained his grip on his blade.

_He is strong, very strong,_ Jon thought, quickly realising the danger.

Jon quickly realised that if he kept attempting to parry the man’s strikes like he just had, then it would be only a matter of time before Longclaw was ripped from his fingers by the force of the Strongboar’s blows.

Crakehall swung towards Jon a few more times, who quickly dodged or side-stepped the blows, using speed to his advantage rather than raw strength. Jon frantically looked for an opening to exploit, a weakness that he could use to give him victory, and his life.

The Strongboar raised his sword above his head and brought it down towards Jon, clearly looking to cleave his skull in two. Jon spun out of the way, slashing out at the same time, with Longclaw cutting into the man’s sword arm. Crakehall roared out in pain and, with speed that surprised Jon, punched out with his free hand, his chainmail covered fist smashing into the side of his face.

The side of Jon’s face exploded with pain, and he felt his teeth rattle in his head, with Jon immediately begin convinced that he was going to lose of few of them. Jon staggered away from Crakehall, his head swimming and his vision blurred, before spitting out a mouthful of blood, which, from the pain in the centre of his mouth as well as his face, Jon realised was because he had bitten his tongue.

Despite his vision being completely blurred, with the mass of men in front of him appearing as nothing more than swiftly morphing shadows, Jon was aware of an approaching figure out of the corner of his eye. Blinking furiously, his vision beginning to clear, Jon turned to face Crakehall once more, who was rapidly coming back into focus as he advanced.

Jon raised Longclaw in readiness, not willing to lash out prematurely and leave himself open for attack, especially not in his weakened state. He knew that his best hope was to wait for the man to attack his rashly, and pray for his counterattack to be fatal.

Crakehall swung at Jon a couple of times, once towards his head and another clearly hoping to take off one or both of his legs, and both times Jon managed to evade it, the second only missing the man’s blade by mere inches. This however, merely seemed to enrage the man, just as Jon had hoped.

In a seemingly desperate attempt to bury his sword in Jon’s chest up to the hilt, the man thrust his blade forward, with both hands griping at the hilt, putting all of his considerable strength behind the blow. Jon dodged out of the way of the blow, slipping Longclaw under the man’s arms, before swinging upwards with all of his strength.

Crakehall’s scream of agony filled his ears, as Longclaw cut both of the man’s hands off at the wrists. The man’s hands fell to the floor, his sword clanging against the cobblestones, a pool of blood quickly forming around his feet. Jon took a step forward and, after gripping Crakehall’s shoulder, to steady both the man and Jon himself, thrust Longclaw through the bridge of the man’s nose and out the back of his head.

After pulling his sword free, Jon staggered back a few paces, before massaging the side of his face, which was already swollen and bruised. Spitting out another mouthful of blood, Jon cast his eyes around him, checking for any threats.

In doing so, Jon’s eyes fell upon Gendry, who was fighting two Lannister men by himself, managing to hold them both back with his large warhammer. As Jon watched, Gendry smashed one of their weapons out of their hand, before raising his hammer above his head and bringing it down onto the man’s helm, that immediately crumpled under the force of it. Gendry then swung his hammer sideways into the second man’s chest, throwing the man off his feet and leaving him in a crumpled heap on the floor.      

As Gendry hurried off into the fray, and out of sight, Jon moved too, in the opposite direction. Almost immediately he saw the Crakehall sigil again and, from both that and the similarity in appearance to the man he had just killed, Jon was sure that this was Tybolt Crakehall, the elder brother of Lyle and the heir to House Crakehall.

However, it was clearly that Tybolt was not aware of his brother’s fate, as he was locked in a fierce duel with the Hound. Jon was surprised, and impressed despite himself, that the man was able to keep pace with the Hound, which Jon knew was no easy feat after seeing the man in combat at Riverrun, where he had fought three men at once.

However, before long the Hound’s superior skill became clear and, after severing the man’s sword arm, he stabbed his sword into the man’s gut, his strength allowing him to pierce through the armour he had been wearing.

As Jon turned away from the sight of the second Crakehall death in a matter of moments, and began to prepare to enter the battle once more, a horn began to sound. Jon stopped slightly in shock, as dozens of other horns began to sound throughout the city.

“Enough!” came a distraught voice, that was clearly audible now that the majority of the men had ceased fighting, in order to see what was causing the sound.

Jon turned towards the voice, and saw that it was coming from an elderly man, who too was bearing the Crakehall sigil. He staggered out of the mass of people, his eyes wide as he took in Tybolt and Lyle’s dead bodies.

_This must Roland Crakehall,_ Jon guessed.

“Put down your fucking weapons!” the man shouted, as he fell to his knees next to Tybolt.

Tormund appeared next to Jon, and was looking down at the man, with a look of pity on his face. There was the sound of dozens of steel weapons clanging onto the stones, as the Lannister men followed their order. While not all of them did, the sound of weapons hitting the floor grew as the enemy surrendered.

They had won.

Jon let out of sigh of relief, letting himself relax for the first time in what seemed like hours. However, he knew that he couldn’t let himself grow too distracted, as there was still much to do.

“Have your men secure the survivors,” Jon said, turning to Tormund. “We will need all of them when we face the Night King.”

Tormund gave a nod and began to head towards Lord Crakehall, who was now crouched over Lyle’s body, looking in horror at his missing hands. Jon felt a rush of both guilt for being the one to kill his son, and for the way he had done it, and pity for the man, who now had the horrible task of burying two of his children.

Jon reached out and gripped Tormund’s shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. He turned back to meet Jon’s eyes, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

“Leave him for now,” Jon said, nodding to Crakehall. “Let him grieve.”

Tormund nodded in understanding, before turning and leaving. Jon had no problem letting the man grieve for his fallen children as he bore no ill-will towards him. He was now sure that it had been Lyle Crakehall that had defaced the Stark banner because of how he had merely addressed him as bastard when they had met on the battlefield. Jon kept looking over to the grieving man, as the Lannister men around him were rounded up and out into chains.

“My sons,” Crakehall was saying over and over again, his voice thick with sorrow. “My sons.”

This did nothing to alleviate Jon’s guilt. Jon knew, from their meeting before the battle, that Lord Roland had three sons to continue on his name and now, thanks to this one battle, two of them were dead. And with the third son’s fate unknown, Jon was painfully aware that this war could mean the end for House Crakehall.

It was a fact that brought Jon no comfort or pride, despite the fact that the Crakehalls were sworn to their enemy, only a sense of grim acceptance, knowing that this was a war and that some uncomfortable and harsh things would happen before it was over. With this being one of them.

Replacing Longclaw into his belt, Jon finally turned away from Crakehall and headed back towards the gate, looking to find a messenger to send word of their victory to Daenerys.

*

That night, Lord Renfred Rykker held a feast for them in his keep, the Dun Fort. Shortly after the battle had finished, Lord Rykker had sought out Gendry and had bent the knee and sworn his allegiance there and then, with some of the men saying that he had knelt in the blood of dead Lannisters while swearing his fealty to the new head of House Baratheon.

_Quite a statement,_ Jon had thought when he’d heard it. _Kneeling in the blood of the old liege lord’s men, while swearing to their new._

Apparently, the man had declared that he, and the whole of House Rykker, would prefer to follow the last surviving son of Robert Baratheon, even if he was a bastard, over the ‘Mad Queen’.

The man had then thrown a feast in honour of their victory over the Lannisters, bringing up food and drink from the keep’s stores. As Jon watched it being presented, he was sure that the Lannisters must have stockpiled the keep’s food reserves, in case of a lengthy siege.

Jon and Dany had been given places of honour at the high table, alongside Lord Rykker and Gendry, as their new liege lord. However, Jon and Dany had spent much of the evening alone together at the table, as Gendry had been accosted by Lord Rykker early on and had been paraded through the hall, meeting all of his closest friends and advisors. Many of them had declared loudly, for all to hear, of how they had met his father, no matter how briefly.

After the exertion of the battle, and the efforts afterward in locating and securing the near a thousand Lannister survivors, of their initial contingent of thirty thousand, Jon was famished. He wolfed down whatever was in front of him, despite the aching of his jaw, washing it down with a several large tankards of ale, so much so that he was beginning to feel a little light headed.

After finishing his meal, Jon sat back in his chair, wincing slightly as he felt the bandage around his arm stretching slightly. Once Dany had seen blood running down Jon’s arm, as well as the rapid swelling and bruising on his cheek from the Strongboar’s blow, she had insisted that he see the maester, despite his objections.

However, Jon had soon lost that discussion when he had given in at the look of disapproval on Daenerys’ face.

After stitching up the gash to his bicep, the man had examined his face and had told Jon that, despite the force of the blow, his jaw hadn’t been broken nor had any of his teeth been knocked out.

As Jon reached out and rubbed at the area where the bandage covered his wound, he heard Dany’s voice cut above the revelry in the hall.

“Jon?” she said, sounding concerned. “Are you well?”

He turned and met her violet eyes, which were looking at him with concern, and he couldn’t stop a wide smile from crossing his face at the sight of her.

“I am,” he replied, seeing the concern leave her face. “The pain is mostly gone now.”

The two of them spoke quietly together for some time, neither of them much caring that they were alone at the front of the hall, nor that everyone could see how close they were sitting, with their heads close to one another.

After some time, however, their conversation paused for a moment and Jon sat back in his chair, draining his tankard. His eyes found Gendry, who was standing in a far corner of the main hall, surrounded by not only Lord Rykker, but also around a dozen men, all of them wanting to speak to the new Lord Baratheon.

“Gendry looks very uncomfortable, doesn’t he?” Dany said, voicing something that Jon had just noticed himself. Gendry was clearly, even from this far away, very tense, merely nodding or shaking his head in response to questions and speaking only very rarely.

“I imagine that this is still difficult for him,” Jon said, as he watched. “Gendry has been a nameless bastard for much of his life, not even knowing who his father was. So, to have all this interest in him suddenly thrust upon him, it must be a lot to deal with.”

Dany hummed slightly in agreement, with neither of them taking their eyes off of the young man. After a moment, Jon raised himself from his seat, and turned to Dany, with a small smirk on his face.

“I suppose that I had better save Lord Baratheon, hadn’t I?” he smiled, causing Dany to smirk slyly back at him.

“Don’t take too long,” she whispered.

With another smirk and a small shake of his head, Jon headed down from the dais that the table had been on, and headed across the room towards Gendry.

As he crossed the hall, Jon found himself being slapped on the back by several men, in various states of drunkenness, with one of them nearly staggering over after doing so. Jon also saw Davos and Tormund sat at a table that was mostly comprised of Tormund’s wildling men, although the Hound had also joined them.

By the looks of it, they had been participating in a drinking contest, with Davos slumped on the table and Tormund and the Hound drinking from huge tankards, to great cheers and applause from those watching. As the two of them draining their drinks, both of them rocked slightly in their seats before cheering their success. Jon shook his head slightly as he kept walking, unable to stop a smile from spreading across his face at seeing their antics.

Soon Jon reached the small group around Gendry, with one of the men now telling him, and anyone within earshot, about the time that he had met his father at a brothel in King’s Landing, with Gendry looking incredibly awkward and mildly angry at hearing this story.

“My lords,” Jon said, making sure that his voice carried over the drunken man’s story. “I apologise for the interruption, but I was hoping to speak with Lord Baratheon alone.”

The man turned around, looking annoyed at having to interrupt his story, and in his drunken state it took him a few moments to recognise Jon, his face becoming slack in shock once he did.

“Of course, King Jon,” Lord Rykker said suddenly, ushering the still gaping man away.

Jon and Gendry turned away from the group and walked away, towards a balcony that looked over the town.

“Thank you,” Gendry muttered gratefully. “That was getting fucking irritating.”

“I had a feeling that would be hard for you,” Jon replied, smiling slightly. “Bastards are often shunned, and I know how it feels to go from that to having lords clamouring for your attention, within a matter of weeks.”

“But at least you grew up around them,” Gendry countered, as they stopped on the balcony. “You probably got taught how to speak around them, what to say.”

“Robb was the one who got taught all that,” Jon explained, looking over the darkening countryside. “He was to be the Lord of Winterfell, so he was the one that my father tutored in how to accommodate the other lords. I was the bastard, so all I got was whatever I overheard him telling my brother.”

“Still better than me,” Gendry argued. “I grew up as a blacksmith apprentice. The only time I saw a lord was when they got lost and ended up in Flea Bottom. And now I am the head of House Baratheon, having to deal with these men who wish to bend their knee and serve me.”

Jon nodded in response, conceding Gendry’s point. They remained in silence for a moment, with Jon continuing to look out over the dusk while Gendry silently drank from his tankard.

“So, I hear our fathers were good friends,” Gendry said suddenly, with the air of a man wanting to move the subject along.

While Jon knew that he meant Robert and Eddard, there was a part of him that found it ironic Gendry saying that as his father had killed Rhaegar during the Rebellion.

“Yes, they were,” Jon responded. “They grew up in the Vale together. Because of their friendship, the Houses of Stark and Baratheon had a strong bond.”

“I hope that we can have the same,” Gendry said suddenly.

Jon turned to meet his eye, surprise not only by the clumsy declaration of alliance, but also his eagerness for it. After a moment’s pause, Jon nodded.

“So do I,” he replied resolutely.

The two of them fell into silence once more, this time however it was unbroken until Gendry excused himself and headed back inside for more ale. Jon stayed for a few moments longer to look out at the view, before he too headed back inside.

*

They remained at Duskendale for two more days before they set off once more.

While doing so, Jon and Dany received several petitioners, mostly from citizens who live in and around Duskendale who were seeking compensation for their property that had either being damaged or destroyed wither in the Lannister occupation or in the battle.

The most significant petitioner had been Lord Roland Crakehall himself, who had pleaded for his children’s bodies to be allowed to return home, to be buried in the place where they had been born, alongside the bones of their ancestors.

Join and Dany hadn’t really needed to discuss the matter, sharing only a nod of agreement, before allowing it. While Crakehall _had_ fought alongside their enemy, both of them had clearly felt that they could at the least extend him this courtesy, one that had been denied to both Eddard Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen.

The procession had left the morning before their own, with the two bodies being carried on a large cart, escorted on their way by several of the remaining Crakehall men, as well as a few of the Northmen. They were flying under a flag of truce, hopefully to keep them safe from either side on their mission.

On the morning of their own departure, Jon and Dany had already been seated on their mount as Gendry gave his orders to Lord Rykker, looking and sounding very awkward about doing so.

“Keep the Lannister men well fed,” he had commanded. “We will have need of them soon.”

If Lord Rykker had any doubts or curiosity about the meaning behind his orders, he didn’t show them, merely bowing his head low and wishing Gendry good luck on his journey. As Gendry turned to mount his horse, he shared an exasperated look with Jon, who smirked slightly at seeing his continued discomfort.

Before long, they had set off on their renewed trek south. As they marched, Jon knew that by now Tyrion and the southern forces should have reached King’s Landing by now, and placed the capital under siege.

With a twinge of worry in his gut, Jon wondered what would happen if they got there and found out that their plan _hadn’t_ worked, that Tyrion and the others had fallen in their attempt.

Gritting his teeth, Jon refocused himself on the road ahead of them, knowing that dwelling on thoughts like this wouldn’t help them in their effort.

After taking one look back on Duskendale, Jon spurred his horse on until he had re-joined Daenerys at the head of their procession, overhearing someone informing he that they were only three or four days from the capital.

_It won’t be long now, Tyrion_ , Jon thought. _I hope to see you soon, my friend._


	36. Tyrion VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the wait everyone. Real life has been really hectic lately, and it didn't help that I struggled massively with this chapter. However, I managed to get through the writer's block that I had and finished the chapter (finally!)  
> I hope you all enjoy it, and that it is worth the long wait. As always guys, your feedback is appreciated, either here or at my Tumblr or Twitter. So feel free to drop a comment below to let me know what you think.  
> The next chapter will be a Daenerys chapter.

-

Tyrion

 

Tyrion sat back in his seat, massaging his tired eyes. Despite the lateness of the hour, with it being gone midnight, Tyrion was still sat behind his desk, every inch of which was covered with parchment. And, while even the sight of the documents littering his desk was enough to make him even more drowsy, he knew that he could not retire to bed just yet, as he had another meeting to take before his work was done.  

To distract himself while he was waiting he cast an eye over the pages. They were mainly reports from the various scouts that they had sent out in all directions to keep track on the movements of both the Lannister armies as well as Jon and Dany’s march south.

He had just finished reading a report that had told him, with the surrender of Lord Crakehall and the Lannister forces, of the taking of Duskendale days earlier. The report had told of how there was still great deal of Lannister survivors, with just over ten thousand remaining of the thirty thousand strong detachment that Cersei had sent.

 _I have a feeling that they will be useful someday soon,_ Tyrion mused, as he thought about the impending conflict to the North.

As the pervading feeling of fear filled him as he thought about the coming of the White Walkers, as it often did whenever the idea crossed his mind, he reached out and picked up the goblet of wine that had been at his side. He drained the goblet and immediately reached out to refill it, not relishing the taste of the drink despite it being one of the finest Dornish reds.

As he picked up the jug, Tyrion recognised instantly that it was empty. Letting out an irritated sigh, he hopped down from his chair and made his way across his dimly lit tent, illuminated by several braziers, towards the small table where several jugs of wine were sat. He quickly picked one, which he knew to be another Dornish vintage, and refilled his goblet.

As he raised it to his lips and drank, he turned and made his way back to his desk, allowing his mind to wander to their current situation, to distract himself from thinking of the coming threat.

They had arrived at King’s Landing nearly a week ago. Tyrion remembered that the sight of the city had given him feelings of both dread at being back at a place where he had witnessed, and he himself had suffered, a lot of pain and misfortune but also one of happiness at being somewhere that was familiar to him, after spending time in Essos, where everything from the landscape to the weather was foreign to him.

While King’s Landing was a place of conspiracy and danger, it was an atmosphere he knew, understood and even revelled in. Thinking back, Tyrion knew that he had never been in his element more than when he had been in the office of the Hand of the King in his father’s stead, while preparing for Stannis’ attack on the city.

Soon after they had arrived, while Tyrion and Varys had been in discussion with Randyll Tarly, working out the last few details of the siege that they would soon put into place, there had been a sound of a commotion from behind them.

They had turned to see Obara and Tyene Martell dragging Jaime between them. Tyrion had been surprised at first, knowing that Jaime, being taller and stronger than both of them, wouldn’t have to resist much for the two women to be unable to do anything to him. It was only when they got closer, and Tyrion could see the amused look on his brother’s face, that he realised that Jaime was merely playing along with their game, allowing them to feel like they were winning.

While Tyrion shook his head in exasperation at his brother’s actions, he knew that there was likely another reason for allowing the two Martell sisters to believe that they were on top.

 _He is likely trying to lure them into complacency,_ Tyrion had realised, remembering the vengeful look on Jaime’s face when they had spoken of Myrcella, and the Sand Snakes involvement. _So that their guard is down when he strikes._

Tyrion had also noticed that Nymeria had joined them, although she was hanging back behind them. The two of them met eyes, and she gave an almost imperceptible shrug of her shoulders, which Tyrion acknowledged with a small nod. He knew that she couldn’t refuse to be there, for fear of raising suspicion from her sisters.

As the two Martells had dragged Jaime past Tyrion and their impromptu council, Obara had sneered towards him, a look that he returned with one of disdain.

“We don’t have time for this,” Tarly had snarled, looking at the two with disapproval. “They are behaving like children, while we have more important things to be doing.”

While they all agreed with him, no one said anything as all eyes were on the two Martells, curious as to what they were planning. They took Jaime to the crest of the hill that they were stood on, with King’s Landing visible in the distance. Once they came to a halt, Obara leaned into Jaime’s ear, gripping his hair in a tight grip and pulling his head back slightly.

“Nice to be home, Lannister?” she growled into his ear. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to see your sister, won’t you?”

With this, she shared a smug look with Tyene and the two of them laughed together. Obara then looked over to Nymeria, who flashed her sister a satisfied smirk. However, Obara didn’t see that, when she looked away and refocused her attention on Jaime, Nymeria’s face instantly fell, any traces of her forced amusement now gone as she now looked both annoyed and slightly concerned by the actions of her sisters. Tyrion couldn’t suppress a smirk at the sight of the rift that was growing between the Martell sisters, despite the fact that two of them had no idea that it even existed.

“Don’t worry, Lannister,” Tyene whispered into his ear, yet loudly enough for everyone close to hear her. “You’ll soon be seeing her… when we put her head on a pike.”

Tyene shared a devious look with her sister, seemingly oblivious to the outbreak of disapproving mutterings from the onlookers. While Tyrion held no love for Cersei, he knew that Jaime held a stronger bond with her, despite recent events.

However, Tyrion was as shocked as everyone when, far from Tyene’s threat cowering him, Jaime began to laugh. Tyrion too began to chuckle when he saw the dumbfounded look on the two Martell’s faces.

“You think I care?” Jaime laughed mockingly. “You can keep her, I’m done with the bitch.”

Tyrion laughed more loudly now, hearing others joining in now from around him, with many of them clearly pleased to see the two Martells being made a fool of. Out of the corner of his eye, he even saw an amused smirk cross Nymeria’s face, before it was quickly suppressed, so as to not arouse suspicion.

Thinking back on it now, as he sat in his tent, it still brought a smile to his face. He swirled the goblet of wine in his hand, savouring the memory of the two Martells heading away from them all, looking shamed and humiliated, not even bothering to drag Jaime with them.

Jaime had turned to watch them go, sharing a look of amusement with Tyrion, before he had been led back to his cell by a few Dothraki, this time walking on his own without being dragged.

Tyrion’s recollection was interrupted when the guard posted outside called out his name.

“Enter,” Tyrion called out, placing the parchment that he had been blankly staring at while he had been lost in thought back on the desk.

The guard then poked his head inside his tent, and looked towards him.

“My lord, she has arrived.”

“Send her in,” Tyrion replied, feeling pleased that his meeting was finally going to be happening, so that he could retire to sleep.

After a few moments, Nymeria Martell entered the tent, her dark eyes looking over the interior. In response to the increasing chill in the air, she was now dressed in amber coloured leather-like clothing, very similar to what her father had worn when he had been in King’s Landing. Tyrion had only seen her while she had been wearing yellow silken dresses but he had to admit that this style suited her more, and he could see that she was more at ease wearing it.

They both remained in silence for a moment, with Nymeria merely regarding the interior of the tent with passive interest, while Tyrion waited patiently for her to speak.

“Impressive,” she said finally, turning her gaze to him. “It must be nice to have the largest tent in the camp.”

“Thank you,” Tyrion replied cordially, ignoring the subtle slight towards him. “The perks of being the Hand of the Queen.

“Please, have a seat,” he continued, indicating to the chair across from him.

After a slight pause, Nymeria took the chair offered to her, crossing one leg over the other. She leaned back in her chair and placed one hand on her knee, and the other on the arm of the chair, completely at ease and showing no hint of tension or hesitancy despite the years of enmity between their two families.

Feeling grudgingly impressed by the woman’s nonchalance, Tyrion wordlessly raised the wine flagon and offered it to her, receiving a nod of acceptance from her. After filling both of their goblets, Tyrion made a point of draining his own immediately before refilling it, in order to head off any suspicion of poison.

Nymeria seemed to understand his motives as, when she raised her own goblet to her lips, there was a knowing smirk on her face. As Tyrion refilled his goblet, he saw her indifferent expression change into one of surprise.

“You have good taste in wine, Lannister,” she said, meeting his eyes.

“It isn’t hard,” Tyrion replied modestly, “when Dorne produces such fine vintages.”

There was a moment of silence, in which the two of them took sips from their respective goblets. Tyrion was well aware of the pretence that had grown between the two of them since their conversation in the dungeons of Ashford, that of civility between allies with an undercurrent of hostility. While Tyrion knew and had hoped that Nymeria could be a potential ally, he hadn’t taken the signs as definitive, unless it had been some kind of trap.

After bringing Varys into confidence, who had been less than pleased at being involved in Tyrion’s scheme of vengeance against House Martell, they had set some of his spies the task of keeping an eye on her, to see if her declarations of remorse and regret were genuine.

It soon became clear that Nymeria’s words appeared to be genuine, as the spies soon began to report that there had been several arguments between the sisters, held in hushed voices so as to not be overheard. This had gone a long way to convincing Tyrion of Nymeria’s sincerity, as if this was some plot to undermine the Lannisters, they would ensure that as many people as possible knew of such a schism within House Martell.

However, both Tyrion and Varys were still wary, with the two of them having spent enough time in King’s Landing to understand the fact that they _could_ be trying to deceive them. And both of them were of the belief that even if it was only a possibility, it was one that couldn’t be ignored.

And thus, an awkward, silent agreement had fallen into place between the two of them, with Tyrion aware of Nymeria’s doubts and feelings of remorse and Nymeria in turn seemingly being aware of his plans, if the knowing looks that she gave him were anything to go by.

“So,” Nymeria said finally. “Why have you asked to meet me?”

Tyrion paused for a moment, taking a sip from his goblet in order to delay his answering as he pondered his response.

“How are the Martell men faring?” Tyrion asked, faking his sincerity as he decided to test Nymeria, to see how much she had truly realised. “They are aiding in the siege, but how is their morale? Are we likely to experience any trouble with them?”

Nymeria’s brow furrowed in confusion at this question and, if Tyrion was seeing rightly, there was an undercurrent of suspicion in the gaze that she levelled at him.

“Why ask me?” she demanded. “Obara is the commander of our forces, and she would give you a more accurate opinion of theme.”

“Because, of the Martell sisters, you are the only one that doesn’t wish to open my throat rather than answer my question.”

“Are you sure about that?” Nymeria jested, smirking slightly.

Tyrion chuckled slightly in spite of himself. However, before he could reply, Nymeria spoke once more.

“The men, as far as I know, are in high spirits and, as long as they have the chance to face the Lannisters, you will have no problems with any revolt or dissent from them.”

There was a small pause after she finished, in which she drank a little more wine, before placing her goblet back on the desk before sitting back in her chair and looking Tyrion dead in the eye.

“Now that the formalities are over and done with, why don’t you tell me why you _really_ invited me here?”

Tyrion smiled widely at this, impressed in spite of himself. While admittedly it was not the subtlest of questionings that he had ever done, he had to admit that the speed with which she had seen through his argument was admirable.

“I wished to find out if what you said the Ashford dungeons was true,” Tyrion replied, seeing a look of understanding and apprehension crossing her face. “To see how far you are willing to go against your siblings, to atone for what you all had done.”

There was a pause after his words, with the two of them merely looking at each other, Nymeria’s face now passive and inscrutable.

“I will do whatever I have to,” Nymeria replied finally.

As she said this, her composed demeanour cracked, and her emotion was visible. Tyrion was surprised to see the look of sorrow and remorse on her face, far more visible and recognisable than it had been before.

“The more I think about what we did, the more ashamed of our actions and myself I become,” Nymeria admitted. “I did it all for the memory of my father, and my aunt Elia. But I know that they would both scorn and despise me for what we have done in their memory.”

At this Nymeria cast her eyes down towards the desktop, and Tyrion couldn’t suppress his shock at her confession. Not only at the level of doubt and remorse that she was showing, but simply the fact that she _was_ showing it, and to _him_ of all people.

But he was glad that she was, because now he was felt surer that her declarations of doubt and remorse were genuine.

“I asked you here to tell you of what I have planned, in order to deal with your sisters,” Tyrion explained, taking a deep breathe before continuing.

“Before long Daenerys will be made aware of the truth surrounding Prince Doran’s death. At present, she believes the same as everyone else, the story that you and your sisters had given, that he was assassinated on orders of Cersei.

“And she is unaware of Myrcella’s fate,” Tyrion continued, feeling a lump rise in his throat and a feeling of anger begin to bubble in his gut as he thought of his niece’s fate.

Maybe his feeling showed on his face, as Tyrion could see Nymeria grow visibly uncomfortable and unsettled at this and, while it was not his intention, he couldn’t deny that was a little pleased.

“Your story was supported by the Martell guardsmen who aided you,” Tyrion continued, making eye contact with her once more and holding it defiantly. “And, while the people of Dorne are currently behind you, that may not remain the case once the truth is revealed.

“The only reason,” Tyrion continued, raising both his voice and his hand to her, as Nymeria had been showing signs of interrupting, “that Varys and I have not revealed the truth to Daenerys is because, other than the fact that we need the Dornish armies and that we need to be united when facing my sister, we had no real way to prove it. It would just be seen as me, a Lannister, stirring up discord between your family and Daenerys.”

“And now?” Nymeria questioning, raising her eyebrows.

“Now we have someone who can confirm what we are saying.” Tyrion said, indicating towards her with his hand. “Your sisters will no doubt reject our claims, and so we will need you to confirm what truly happened.”

Nymeria nodded solemnly in understanding. There was a long pause while she began to look around the room, clearly mulling over what he had said, with Tyrion watching her carefully as she made up her mind.

After a few moments, which seemed like hours, she raised her head and met his eyes once more.

“Very well,” she said quietly, nodding solemnly.

Tyrion exhaled deeply in relief, although he didn’t allow himself to get carried away. While he was sure that her remorse and desire for redemption were genuine, he was all too aware that he could be mistaken. He and Varys had prepared for the eventuality that she would betray their plan to her sisters, but Tyrion hoped that it wouldn’t come to that.

“It is strange, is it not?” she said suddenly, with a sad smile on her face. “That in order to repent for betraying my family, I will have to betray my sisters.”

Tyrion merely nodded in response, unable to think of anything to say that would help her. He wasn’t sure that he was the best person to help her with her concerns over this as for him, other than the effect that it would have on Jaime, Tyrion held no concerns or regrets over betraying his family.

Nymeria, on the other hand, did. Tyrion could see that the young woman seemed to be wracked with guilt. Not only from the actions that she and her sisters had taken, but also with the knowledge that she would have to betray them and, while Tyrion despised his sister, Nymeria didn’t share these feelings for her own.

Despite his animosity for the Martells and his rage towards them for their actions against Myrcella, Tyrion found himself feeling a twinge of pity and sympathy for the young woman. While he was initially surprised by the fact that he was even willing to entertain the idea of helping Nymeria with her guilt, he cast these feelings away for a moment before speaking.

“Guilt is a hard burden to carry,” he said quietly, seeing her eyes snap to meet his gaze immediately, looking shocked by this. “I know that feeling all too well.”

Nymeria’s brow furrowed in confusion as she looked at him, but she said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

“When I escaped King’s Landing, I went to my father’s chambers to kill him,” Tyrion explained, swirling his goblet in his hand and staring at the red liquid. “When I got there I found Shae, a woman who had become very fond of, lying in my father’s bed, awaiting his return.”

Tyrion paused for a moment, still staring into his wine goblet.

“And I killed them both.”

Tyrion looked up to see Nymeria’s stunned expression at his declaration. Tyrion’s murder of Tywin was common knowledge throughout the kingdoms, Cersei had made sure of that, but Varys had told Tyrion that Shae’s presence in Tywin’s chambers had been covered up.

Tyrion shifted slightly in his chair, realising uncomfortably that he had only spoken of this to a few people, neither of whom were a potential enemy.

“Tywin had scorned and derided me for my entire life, treating me as if I had murdered my mother at birth. Shae had betrayed me, lying at my trial so that I would be found guilty of murdering Joffrey.

“Despite what they had done to me, occasionally I do feel guilt for killing them. Mainly for Shae, rather than my father.”

‘Occasionally’ was a bit of an exaggeration, as Tyrion could only remember a handful of incidents where he had even felt a glimmer of guilt for what had happened, and they had _all_ been over Shae’s death. But from some reason, that he couldn’t fully explain to himself, despite his anger over the actions that she had aided in, Tyrion felt that it was best to console and help Nymeria, even though it wasn’t necessary for his plan.

 _Getting fooled by a pretty face again, Lannister?_ Tyrion scolded himself. _Haven’t learnt from your mistakes, then?_

Tyrion mentally shook himself, to cast out these foolish thoughts. While Nymeria certainly was a beautiful woman, Tyrion couldn’t deny that, he was sure that he wasn’t allowing that to cloud his thoughts. Even if he was, she was barely an ally to him so he couldn’t allow himself to get distracted or confused over her motives.

“I am curious about one thing though, Lord Tyrion,” Nymeria said, bringing Tyrion from his thoughts. “Why are you even willing to work with me? While you want revenge for what happened to Myrcella, _I_ was a part of that.”

Tyrion paused for a moment before answering, taking a swig of wine.

“Because of all of the Sand Snakes, you are the only one of them to seem like a good person.”

“How can you say that?” she demanded, a flicker of anger in her voice now. “I conspired and aided in the murder of my uncle and _your_ niece.”

“ _But,_ ” Tyrion replied, “as far as I know, out of the three of you, you are the only one who didn’t actually kill anyone.”

“I would have done though,” Nymeria said, the angry tone in her voice changing to one of shame. “If Obara hadn’t stopped me, I would have killed my cousin Trystane.

“I remember the anger that I’d been feeling at that moment,” she continued, with a far-away look on her face as she recalled the memory. “Anger at the loss of our father, at the Lannisters, at Doran and Trystane for doing nothing and working with our enemy.”

Nymeria paused for a moment, her feelings of shame and disgust evident on her face.

“Whenever I do, all I feel is shame at how angry I had been, now that I have come to my sense and realised how misguided our actions had been.”

As she said this, Tyrion saw her face become covered by a look of pure sorrow before she dropped her gaze to the floor. Tyrion refilled her goblet and pushed it towards her, which she grabbed without hesitation and took a long drink.

“This is why I have chosen to work with you,” Tyrion explained, sitting back in his chair, seeing Nymeria raise her head once more to look at him. “You are, while by no means innocent, the least culpable out of your sisters and Ellaria and yet you are the only one who is showing any sign of remorse over the actions that you had all taken.”

“Just because I regret our actions?” Nymeria replied, looking confused.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” Tyrion replied sharply, with a warning note to his tone that made her straighten up slightly. “I do not consider you blameless, as you aided and conspired in the act, and if you had been more involved in the deaths, then I would be working against you, as well as your siblings. And if you betray what I have spoken to you about to your sisters, you will find me a lot less hospitable than I am currently.”

There was short pause after he had finished, with Nymeria looking at him with a look of shock on her face at the vehemence in his voice. However, it was soon replaced by one of understanding, and she nodded her agreement.

“So, Lady Nymeria, do we have an agreement?” Tyrion asked, reaching his hand out to her.

Nymeria paused for a moment, looking at his outstretched hand with a conflicted look on her face.

“What will become of my sisters, and Ellaria?” she asked, looking him in the eye.

Tyrion could see the concern on her face, and once again felt a stab of pity for her, seeing her care for her sisters despite their crimes and her desire to expose them. This was something that Tyrion _could_ understand, as his love for his brother had not diminished despite the acts that Jaime had committed, from his relationship with their sister to his attempted murder of Bran Stark.

“That will be Daenerys’ decision,” Tyrion replied, his tone more reassuring now than hostile, as he placed his hand back upon the desk. “I imagine that she will want to show the kingdoms how the justice will work with her on the throne, especially when it comes to traitors and murderers, and I would not risk angering her by murdering some of her allies and depriving her of that chance.”

“So, you wish my sisters dead?” she said.

There was no accusation or outrage in her voice, only a sense of grim understanding and acceptance.

“The hatred and rivalry between our families has gone on for a long time,” Tyrion replied evenly, trying to not let his emotion into his voice, “with neither side being completely innocent in it. But Myrcella had done nothing to your family, and yet your sisters and Ellaria killed her, simply because she was the only Lannister that they could reach.

“So, yes, if I could I would see them dead,” Tyrion said, and he could hear his anger creeping into his voice once more, despite his efforts. “Jaime more so. But luckily for them, Jaime is still locked up and I will not work against Daenerys in any way. So, their fate rests in the hands of the Queen.”

There was a pause after these words, and after a moment Nymeria, despite looking clearly troubled by his declaration of his desire to see her sisters dead, nodded her head and extended her hand towards him.

Tyrion reached out and took her hand in his, initially a little surprised by how strong a grip the young woman had before he remembered that she had spent a great deal of time training in combat. They shook hands, in silent agreement of Tyrion’s plan.

As the broke their handshake, the two of them reached out to drain their goblets, with Tyrion having a feeling of accomplishment that he had gotten Nymeria’s agreement to his plan.

He reached out to pick up the jug of wine on the table and motioned it towards her, offering her more. However, Nymeria shook her head, placing the goblet back down on the table before rising to her feet.

“No, thank you, Lord Tyrion,” she said. “I should be leaving, so my sisters do not grow suspicious.”

Tyrion nodded to her, with Nymeria returning the gesture respectfully before turning to head back to the tent entrance, leaving without a backwards glance.

After she had left, Tyrion leaned back in his chair, using the solitude to run the meeting over again in his mind. While he was pleased that Nymeria seemed to agree with his scheme against his siblings, he also had the notion in the back of his mind, no doubt borne out of too many conversations with Varys, that he would have to be vigilant against a potential betrayal.

These two conflicting notions, that of what Nymeria had said to him and her expressions of her seeming remorse and the idea that this could still be some elaborate ploy by the Martell sisters, gave Tyrion the sort of confusing headache that reminded him of his time playing the Game of Thrones in King’s Landing.

A small smile came unbidden to his face, as he felt a small rush of familiarity and ease as he realised that he was back doing what he was best at.

However, this time there was something different.

He thought back to the moments where his anger towards the Martells had shifted, and had been replaced by feelings of pity and compassion towards Nymeria, and he became even more confused by them.

While being distracted and allowing his judgment to be skewed by a beautiful woman wasn’t out of character for him, with Tysha and Shae being what came to mind, Tyrion was sure that this wasn’t what was happening this time.

_Or was it?_

Tyrion shook his head, not allowing the idea to take hold. Nymeria was a means for him to depose the Martell sisters from their ill-gotten place of influence and power in revenge for their killing of Myrcella, and that is all that she was to him.

Feeling a little uneasy about this line of thinking, and about the fact that there would even be cause for it in the first place, Tyrion left his desk and headed for his bed, hoping that a night of sleep would erase these thoughts from his tired mind.

*

The following day, Tyrion was sat back at his desk, this time with Varys sat across from him. Tyrion was leaning back in his chair, watching as Varys was re-reading the report that they had received from Randyll Tarly about the state of the siege and the men.

The siege had been in place for several days now, and had begun to settle down and quieten. The remaining Lannister men had retreated into the city and had fortified it, with some of the men reporting that they had seen ballistae and catapults being moved into place on the walls, clearly in preparation for an assault. Tarly had made sure that the men had been placed far enough away to negate this threat, while still maintaining their encirclement of the capital.

After a moment, Varys lowered the report and looked Tyrion in his eye, his face as passive and inscrutable as ever.

“Has there still not been any word from the forces we sent to Lannisport?” Varys asked, his eyes scanning over the parchment over the table top.

Tyrion shook his head, taking a sip from the goblet in his hand, which was purposely not a Dornish vintage.

“Not yet,” he said, placing the goblet back on the table.

Varys’ face creased with a look of confusion and worry for the first time.

“It has been several weeks now since our forces headed to Lannisport,” Varys said, clearly thinking aloud. “We should send some scouts to check on their progress.”

“We should have a word with Lord Tarly,” Tyrion said, as he reached out to pick up another report. “To see if he can spare a few men, with some of our fastest horses.”

Tyrion read through the report quickly, a report from Yara and Victarion Greyjoy, who had blockaded Blackwater Bay. However, the vast chain that spanned the bay had been raised, preventing them from fully engaging the remainder of Euron’s fleet that resided there. From what little they could receive from the few of Varys’ birds still inside the city, that hadn’t fallen under the control of Qyburn, they had heard that the remaining Ironborn captains had been coerced, under threat of a painful, slow death, to fall under the command of Cersei’s Lannister commanders.

“So,” Varys said suddenly, “how was your meeting with Nymeria Martell?”

Tyrion sighed deeply and closed his eyes, not even brothering trying to act surprised that Varys had known.

“It went well,” Tyrion replied simply, not lowering the report to look at Varys, even though he was no longer reading.

There was no response from Varys, so Tyrion sighed again and lowered the report, seeing the man staring at him expectantly. Placing the report back on the desk, and picking his goblet back up, Tyrion met the man’s eyes.

“She has agreed to expose their crimes to Daenerys,” Tyrion explained.

“In exchange for…?” Varys asked, raising his eyebrows in expectation.

“She didn’t ask for anything,” Tyrion replied, feeling a little amusement at the look of puzzlement that crossed Varys’ face at this.

“If she hasn’t asked for anything,” Varys asked, his voice low and conspiratorial, “has it occurred to you that-”

“That she could be conspiring with her sisters to betray us?” Tyrion continued, making sure that his tone conveyed his annoyance at having to be asked. “I have considered it, and we will be making sure to continue keeping an eye on her. While I do hope that her declarations of remorse and willingness to help are genuine, we will continue to keep an eye on her, to anticipate any betrayal.”

“What about your brother?” Varys asked, looking at him with interest.

“He wants them all to pay for Myrcella’s death,” Tyrion said, looking past Varys at the tent wall, lost in thought as he remembered the dark look of vengeance that crossed his brother’s face whenever the Martells were mentioned. “Ellaria especially. She is the one who poisoned his daughter, so he wishes for her death.”

“And what of the Sand Snakes?”

“He wants them same for them,” Tyrion explained. “All of them.”

“Even Nymeria?” Varys questioned, as he helped himself to a goblet of wine. Tyrion noticed that, while Varys would occasionally partake in a cup of wine with him, his was never more than half filled.

 _Never giving anyone a chance to exploit a weakness,_ Tyrion thought with a small smirk.

“Yes,” he responded. “He knows about the plan with Nymeria but, while he says that he understands that she is the least guilty of the sisters, he doesn’t see it as enough for her to escape punishment for what they have done.”

“And what do you think? Does Nymeria helping us exempt her from punishment?”

Tyrion immediately opened his mouth to respond, but he quickly realised that he had no clue what his answer was. A few weeks ago, he would have been emphatic in his agreement with Jaime, that the entirety of House Martell deserved to be destroyed for their crimes.

But now…

Assuming that her remorse and willingness to repent by exposing the truth to Daenerys was genuine, Tyrion wasn’t so sure that Nymeria deserved death. However, as he thought this, the doubts and questions from the night before resurfaced in his mind.

What had caused this change of heart? Was it simply that he felt compassion and pity for a woman caught up in a cycle of vengeance, something that he could certainly sympathise with? Or _was_ it that he was allowing himself to be influenced by a beautiful woman yet again, like he had considered the previous night?

“I don’t know,” Tyrion said finally, voicing the conflict that was still going inside his head.

“We will have to be careful,” Varys said, placing his hardly drunk wine back on the table top. “And make sure that Jaime doesn’t do anything foolish until Nymeria has revealed the truth.”

“Is it ‘we’ now?” Tyrion asked sarcastically, chuckling slightly. “I thought you didn’t approve of my vengeance against them.”

“I have aided you enough in it, have I not?” Varys sighed, with a hint of exasperation in his voice. “I might as well aid you more, to ensure that nothing happens to compromise the armies of the Queen.”

“We shouldn’t have anything to worry about from Jaime,” Tyrion replied confidently, leaning back in his chair.

“Really?” Varys replied, raising an eyebrow. “We shouldn’t worry that your brother has expressed his desire for them all to be dead? What if he was to make a move on them?”

“Jaime is in a cell,” Tyrion replied. “And while I do not wish for my brother to be caged like an animal, it does work in our plan’s favour. He is being guarded by Martell men, who will not be likely to be either bribed or convinced to let him go.

“And even if he was able to get out, between the two of us we should be able to convince him to postpone his revenge until after Daenerys has been made aware of the truth.”

“Well, I hope so,” Varys replied, looking off into space. “If he kills any of the Martells, then that would also reflect onto you, as his brother. We could lose the support of the Dornish armies, if their leaders are attacked by the brother of the Queen’s Hand.”

Tyrion opened his mouth to say that he understood the consequences of such an action, that not only would they be losing a part of their army, of men that they would need later on, but also that it would most likely lead to his brother’s death, either at the hands of the Martell soldiers or Daenerys herself. She already was not Jaime greatest supporter, with his involvement in the death of her father, and if he was responsible for a large part of her army deserting her, then she might order his execution.

Before he could say anything, a horn sounded outside the tent.

Tyrion and Varys immediately turned towards the tent entrance and, as if in response to their action, a man hurried inside, his flushed face clearly showing his distress.

“My lord,” he spluttered, barely able to speak between his panting breaths. “The army we sent to take the Westerlands has returned… at the head of a Lannister host.”

Tyrion stared back at the messenger in complete disbelief, completely convinced that this was some elaborate ploy or that he had drunken so much that he was having a hallucination.

Varys then got up from his chair and hurried from the tent, moving faster that Tyrion had ever seen him. Tyrion jumped down from his sear, and followed him. The air that hit him when he left the tent carried a distinctly winter chill which, along with the adrenaline that was beginning to flood through him at the events unfolding, began to sober him up rather quickly.

They hurried to the westernmost point of their encampment and they could immediately see the approaching force. Even from so far away the sigils of House Tyrell were visible, in front of the mass of crimson and black armoured men.

Tyrion recalled that the force that had sent had been under the command of Olymer Tyrell, a distant cousin of the Tyrell family. Tyrion had only met him in passing, standing at the back of a war meeting where Randyll Tarly had given him the command of the Westerlands force, where he had been keen for the role and eager to impress his commanders and the new Queen.

However, the voice of Lady Olenna went through his mind.

_“They are too weak, too easily led by the promise of glory.”_

As he looked out at the approaching force, the doubt and confusion over this development gave way to anger and realisation over what had transpired.

 _Cersei has promised that fool something,_ Tyrion though savagely. _Most likely the dominion over the Reach as the Head of House Tyrell._

As Tyrion watched, he saw their forces assemble into a defensive line to prepare for the enemy’s attack. From their position, he could see Randyll Tarly riding on his mount to the front line, with a Dothraki that Tyrion assumed was Barbarro, and begin to give orders.

They saw what remained of the Westerosi army, that wasn’t encircling the capital, move to form a shield wall to brace against a charge from the enemy forces. Tyrion saw that, while their forces outnumbered the approaching host, the field that they were fighting upon was flat, except for the small rises where the command tent and few isolated pockets of archers were located, depriving their forces any advantage of higher ground.

However, Tyrion was convinced that, with their superior numbers and with the command of Randyll Tarly and Barbarro, they would defeat the attackers.

It didn’t take long for the Tyrell-Lannister forces to reach them, and the sounds of battle began to fill their ears, the clash of blades and the screams of dying men reaching them despite the distance.

As the fighting began in earnest, Tyrion saw that their forces began to gain a foothold and began to gain ground, the combined forces of trained Westerosi knights and repeated Dothraki cavalry charges catching the attackers off guard. Seeing the attackers being pushed back, and their numbers beginning to dwindle, lessened the knot of tension that had formed in his gut.

However, his feeling of relief was soon extinguished by the sound of a second horn ringing out.

“Lannisters!” a voice bellowed, carrying above the sounds of the battle below them.

Tyrion turned his head, looking northwards, and felt his breath leave his body.

A second Lannister force was approaching them, this once mostly comprised of cavalry, quickly closing the gap between them. As they thundered towards them, Tyrion recognised the sigil of House Rosby, standing out among the Lannister lion.

“Cersei,” Tyrion growled, immediately understanding what had happened.

He recalled the reports they had received, from Jaime and Varys’ remaining birds, telling of how Cersei had sent their newly acquired conscripted soldier into various encampments throughout the kingdoms that were still under Lannister control.

 _This must be one of them,_ Tyrion thought, as he saw the force rapidly approach. _Or more than one._

While on its own it was not enough to mount much of a challenge to their forces, numbering a few thousand at most, combined with the other host that their forces were already engaged with and the fact that they were flanking behind their defensive line, Tyrion knew that their involvement in the battle would likely turn the tide.

“Tyrion,” came Varys’ voice, breaking through his reverie. “We need your brother.”

Tyrion turned to face him, confused over this.

“Lord Tarly will need as many skilled commanders as he can,” Varys explained.

Tyrion nodded his understanding and, without another word, they both turned and hurried off, to where Jaime had been imprisoned. As they ran onwards, they passed the last few stragglers, as they hurried towards the fighting, frantically fastening the straps on their armour or placing their weapons at their hips.

As they grew closer to the area where Jaime had been imprisoned, the sounds of the battle began to fade behind them, while not disappearing entirely. They rounded the last corner, bringing Jaime’s cell into view, they received yet another shock.

The door was wide open, and the guard was slumped to one side, his head lolling down onto his chest.

“Oh fuck!” Tyrion whispered, as he picked up his pace.

When they reached the man, Tyrion leaned down to check on him. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the man’s chest moving up and down. As he wondered what could have happened, he looked down to the man’s belt and saw that the keys for the cell were gone from his belt.

With sinking feeling in his stomach, Tyrion stood back up and headed over to the cell door, praying that he would find that it had been forced open, even though it would mean that Jaime had been taken by the enemy.

Of course it hadn’t, and Tyrion felt his stomach drop even further as he realised who had taken advantage of the confusion of the attack, taken the key from the guard and opened the door this way… and the one place that he would go.

“Jaime,” Tyrion breathed, before turning and sprinting away, heading for the tent where he hoped that the Martells would be.

 _And alive,_ Tyrion thought, as he ran.

He had only been running for a matter of moments but he was already growing tired, the wine he had drunk not aiding him either. But he didn’t dare stop. He knew that he couldn’t physically stop his brother from killing the Martells, if he hadn’t already, but he could at least try to talk him out of it.

 _But would he listen?_ Tyrion asked himself, as he continued to hurry on, ignoring the pain in his legs and his shortness of breath. _When confronting the women who murdered his daughter, who he had held in his arms as she died, would he listen to me, counselling restraint?_

Before long he saw the tent in the distance and, as he grew closer, he heard raised voices from within the tent, which manages to reach his ears over the sounds of the battle still raging.

Tyrion, with his breath burning in his lungs and his legs paining him with the exertion, burst into the tent and entered a scene of carnage.

Jaime was stood in the middle of the tent, being restrained by two Martell guards, with what looked like Nymeria’s whip wrapped several times around his chest. Tyrion was a little shocked by the look of dark fury on his face, making him look almost feral. Despite the fact that he had spent several weeks incarcerated, Tyrion could see that the two men were struggling to keep hold of him to stop him from continuing his attack.

Turning his head, he saw the three Martell sisters and Ellaria on the other side of the tent, the sisters shouting and screaming at the top of their voices. Nymeria was stood with her back to Jaime, physically holding back Obara and Tyene, to prevent them from attacking him. Tyrion could hear the two of them cursing Jaime, calling him names that he was sure that Bronn would have appreciated, while Nymeria was urging them to calm themselves. And, in the background, Ellaria was stood staring at Jaime, with a look of pure fear on her face.

Tyrion quickly surmised that she must have been Jaime’s target when he had forced his way into the tent, causing the two sisters and the guards to leap in to protect her.

Tyrion stepped forward and raised his voice, to carry it above the din in the tent.

“Jaime!” he roared. “Enough!”

His voice had the desired effect, although he suspected that it was more from surprise at his arrival, rather that his words. Jaime turned towards him, and the dark look on his face changed slightly, mixing with one of shock. Tyrion quickly clanked over to the Martells and saw that while Ellaria, Obara and Tyene were looking at him with hostility and suspicion, Nymeria had a look of relief on her face at the sight of him.

At that moment, the silence that had just fallen within the tent was broken by a third horn ringing out from outside.

Tyrion turned towards the sound, completely baffled.

 _Who the fuck else is there to attack us?_ He thought, as he strode back towards the entrance to see who the newest arrival was.

However, he froze on the spot when another sound filled the air, a sound that inspired as much relief in him as it would dread in their enemies.

The shriek of a dragon.


	37. Daenerys VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone.  
> Sorry for the long absence, but unfortunately I had some serious personal stuff come up just before Christmas and it has taken a while to get it all sorted. I'm sorry that my personal stuff got in the way as it's not fair that it should have affected you guys, and that it took so long.  
> Luckily it all seems to be sorted now (*fingers crossed*), so now I'm back to writing. I hope this chapter is worth the wait, let me know down below in the comments. There will be a LOT shorter wait for the next one, I promise.  
> The next chapter will be a Jaime chapter

 

Daenerys

 

Drogon was flying high above the ground, with the icy wind biting into Dany’s skin. She was gripping tightly onto his armour-like scales with her knees and holding onto one of his spikes in each hand, her fingers and knees beginning to grow numb, from both the exertion of holding on and from the bitter air.

Looking down, squinting her eyes against the wind, Dany could just about make out where her army was encamped, on a hill overlooking the capital, seeing not only the Targaryen sigil but also those of House Martell and their vassals.

Looking to her left she could see the part of her army that was its blockade of King’s Landing, despite the attack being made on their camp. While there were a few hundred men breaking from the ring to reinforce their allies, Dany knew that they wouldn’t break the circle, until they were being attacked themselves, in case this was a distraction for the enemies inside the city to attack.

Looking to her right, Dany could see the Lannister host that was attacking her forces, that was being reinforced by a second, smaller host that was attacking from the North, directly below her. However, Dany’s eyes were draw to the large crimson mass of men, attacking from the West. As they flew lower towards them, Dany saw that there was a few Tyrell sigil among them, the most prominent of which being among the small row of commanders. This line of men was hanging back from the fighting, clearly not willing to get involved themselves, and were flanked on either side by a small row of ballistae and catapults.

At the sight of the Tyrell sigil, Dany felt a rush of anger flood through her, instantly guessing that one of the Tyrells had betrayed her, and sided with Cersei. While she could tell that not the entire House had turned on her, as there was a great number of Tyrell roses showing in the encampment of her own forces, the fact that even one of them had was too many.

As if sensing her displeasure, and her desire to know for sure, Drogon pitched in the air and made his way towards the row of Lannister commanders. With a few beats of his enormous wings, his speed increasing as he did so, Drogon soared towards them. As they flew over them, Dany could hear far off shouts of surprise and fear from the Lannister forces below them, having a feeling of savage satisfaction at the sound, knowing that they had not expected her or the dragons and had just prepared themselves for the Dothraki forces.

As Drogon came to a halt in the air above the Lannister commanders, his wings beating steadily to keep him airborne, Dany looked down at the half a dozen men below her. Half of them held standards bearing the lion sigil of the Lannisters, with a few other standards bearing sigils that Dany vaguely remembered as being those of vassal houses to them.

However, it was the rose sigil of House Tyrell that drew her eyes, standing behind a man that was clearly the commander of the Tyrell forces. They were too high up for Dany to be able to see his face, and to see if she recognised the man at all, but just the sight of him standing alongside the Lannisters was both confusing and angering for her.

The sounds of the battle below brought Dany’s attention back, and she looked down in time to see the Northern forces perform a cavalry charge in order to break the lines of the smaller Lannister force that had attacked from the North. Even from this height, Dany could see the white form of Ghost as he raced alongside the horses at the front of the charge, one of whom Dany knew immediately to be Jon’s.

_Ghost rarely ever leaves his side,_ Dany thought, as the two forces clashed, with Ghost immediately unhorsing a Lannister rider. _And especially not now._

Dany called out a command to Drogon in Valyrian, and he immediately obeyed, flying over to join his siblings in hovering over the encampment of the Targaryen forces. From their position above the battlefield, Dany could see that, while her forces had the advantage of both numbers and the ability to retreat to higher ground, they were still recovering from being caught by surprise. The Lannister forces were taking advantage of this, and Dany could see that, at the moment, the battle was going in their favour.

Dany urged Drogon on in Valyrian and, with Rhaegal and Viserion immediately following them, they swooped down towards the Lannister force.

“ _Dracarys!”_ Dany called out.

All three dragons immediately spewed forth torrents of flame down towards the crimson-clad soldiers, many of whom raised their shields in an attempt to protect themselves from the fire. Confusion spread through the Lannister ranks at they were pelted by dragon fire, with several of the men set aflame staggered into their fellows, setting them ablaze too.

However, a horn soon sounded from behind them, cutting through the sounds of the soldier’s screams, from where the row of commanders still stood, watching from afar. Dany was shocked to then see the Lannister men make a charge towards her forces, with many of them pushing aside or trampling their comrades in their haste to do so, breaking through the defensive lines that were still forming.

Dany quickly realised the reason behind their tactic, inwardly cursing the bad luck of it but also admiring the strategy. They were mixing themselves amongst the Targaryen forces, and blurring the battle lines between friend and foe, as they knew that she would not command her dragons to fire upon on her own men.

As Dany eyes cast over the battlefield, seeing the Lannister men continuing to hurl themselves into the Targaryen ranks, her mind ran as he considered what to do. Her eyes then moved to the second front of the battle, where Jon’s cavalry line had broken, the front devolving into a large melee.

However, Dany was pleased to see that Jon’s initial charge had been reinforced by the Unsullied, and the sight of this calmed the feeling of worry that she’d had about Jon’s well-being. While she knew that Jon was a skilled fighter, this would be of little use if he had been as massively outnumbered as he had been. With the aid of the Unsullied forces not only were the numbers evened out slightly but Jon was being reinforced by highly skilled warriors.

The sound of a ballistae firing from below them, caught Dany’s attention and brought her from her thoughts and her attention back onto the westernmost front of the battle. She turned to see that while the bulk of the catapults had brought their flaming projectiles to bear on the Targaryen-Northern forces, the ballistae were aiming their spear-like ammunition straight towards the dragons.

Drogon pitched in the air to avoid the projectiles, letting out a roar as he did so, with Dany having to redouble her grip on his spikes to stop herself from sliding from his back, his sudden movement catching her unawares. The spears flew past Drogon, so close that Dany could gear the whistling sound as they flew through the air past them.

Hearing roars from either side of them, she saw Rhaegal and Viserion dive down towards the machinery, with Drogon quickly following suit, with Dany having to quickly re-position herself on his back safely for fear that she would slide off.

The three of them set to work destroying the siege machinery and removing the threat to both themselves and the army. This caused the enemy commanders to scatter from the torrent of fire that was coming down towards them. As they retreated, Dany made sure to keep her eyes fixed on them, to make sure that they didn’t try to escape and to see if she needed to give chase.

However, once they escaped the immediate threat of the dragons, they reformed their line, observing the battle from afar. This act caused Dany to have a flicker of anger, that they would send these men into battle, a lot of them to their death, while they would watch from afar, safe from the blades and arrows. Compared to the actions of Jon and Grey Worm, commanders who fought alongside their men, who never stood back and expected their men to do all the fighting for them, it reeked of cowardice.

Shaking her head in distaste at their actions, Dany turned her attention back to the battle while her children continued to destroy the siege weaponry. Now that the Targaryen forces had had time to recover from the surprise attack, and had the threat of the catapults removed, they were beginning to push back against the Lannister forces, and the two armies were beginning to separate again. The Lannister men that had flung themselves into the Targaryen forces to protect themselves from the dragon fire had now been dispatched and her forces were beginning to form a line of shields to defend against the Lannisters.

Struck by a sudden idea, Dany leaned down and called out a command to Drogon in Valyrian, who immediately went into a dive. As he sped towards the ground, with the two armies coming ever closer with each beat of his wings, Dany saw that both sides were quickly retreating.

“ _Dracarys!”_ Dany called out, hearing the rush of flame from Drogon’s mouth in response.

The flame torched the ground between the two armies and, as Drogon pulled out of his dive and began to fly straight along the ground, formed a large wall of fire between them. As they passed beyond the armies, Drogon quelled his flame and pulled up from the ground, some stray arrows whistling past as a few enemy archers tried their luck.

As Drogon circled back around, Dany looked down at their handiwork. Luckily this wall of fire between them had prevented the Lannisters from advancing further, and Dany could see that the Targaryen forces were beginning to pull back even further, with them retreating to higher ground. While squinting her eyes, she could see a man on horseback galloping throughout the men, shouting orders. While she couldn’t be sure from this distance, Dany suspected that the man was Lord Randyll Tarly, quickly taking advantage of the change of situation to gain an advantage.

Very quickly though, the Lannister began to adapt to the new circumstances, with many of them beginning to try and move around the edge of the wall. Thinking quickly, Dany leaned down and called out a command to Drogon, who immediately sped up and swung around to fly straight back at the Lannisters once more.

Once he got close he let out a plume of flame once more, although this time he flew around in a circle, entrapping the enemy soldiers inside the circle of fire that he had created. Once he had finished, Drogon slowed down and began to hover above the battlefield, enabling Dany to see what was happening below them.

The Lannister men were beginning to panic, seeing that they were trapped, completely at the mercy of the both the dragons and the Targaryen archers. Dany saw several of the men at the fringes of the mass of Lannisters get too close to the flame, catching themselves alight. They would begin to panic, staggering around trying desperately to extinguish themselves, but this only served to set alight to those around them.

Dany looked away from the sight, trying to ignore the screams and shouts of pain and panic from below her. Her eyes found the second, smaller battle and saw that it was beginning to look like it was going their way, with the Northern and Unsullied forces clearly outnumbering their Lannister counterparts, some of whom where beginning to throw down their weapons in surrender. While Dany could still see the giant white form of Ghost darting through the battle, there was no sign of Jon.

She then looked over towards the Lannister commanders and saw that they were beginning to retreat. Experiencing her own feeling of panic, Dany wheeled around towards Rhaegal and Viserion, who had flown over to them and were hovering behind Drogon, their eyes fixed on the battles below them.

“ _Viserion, Rhaegal!”_ She called, seeing them both turn their heads towards her and pointing to the Lannister commanders. “ _Don’t let them escape!”_

Rhaegal and Viserion both turned in the direction she was pointing and flew off, closing the gap on the horses with only a few beats of their wings. They both began to breath flames against the ground, blocking the escape. While most of them managed to stop their mounts in time, the man at the head of their group wasn’t so lucky, unable to react as his horse was engulfed by the flames pouring from the sky.

Those who managed to avoid the flames all turned and began to ride away, heading in several different directions. The two dragons split up and began to dive upon the fleeing figures, blocking their attempts at escape with their flames. After several moments, their mounts began to get spooked and they began to throw their riders, before galloping away from the danger. However, a few of the riders weren’t lucky enough to survive the fall. One of them was unseated by his mount and fell straight into the raging flames, while another was trampled by several of the other’s horses.

Once the horses had fled the field, the two dragons began to herd the straggling commanders together, into an ever-tightening circle. Once they were all stood back to back, Rhaegal and Viserion landed on either side of them, keeping them together by occasionally snapping their jaws in their direction, making them recoil and jump back into each other.

One of them attempted to force Viserion back, by slashing out at him with his sword. The first few of his slashes did not make contact, however one of his feral attacks finally made contact with Viserion’s snout. While Dany knew that it would not have done much to him, as the hardened scales that her children had were more than enough to rebel the man’s blade, she still leaned forward in worry, her breath catching in her chest.

While the blade merely glanced off his scales, Viserion let out an ear-splitting roar of anger and his head darted forwards, biting off the man’s sword arm at the shoulder. The man staggered backwards, clutching at the now bloody stump where his arm had been. Viserion raised his head and let out a plume of flame into the air, the man’s sword spinning away out of his mouth.

The sight of their ally’s maiming, as well as Viserion’s display, cowed the remaining commanders into submission, with them falling to their knees on the mud. Dany turned away from them, pleased that they at least had a few prisoners that could provide them with some valuable formation, the most important of them being why a sizable part of the Tyrell forces had defected to the Lannisters.

Turning back to the main battle, Dany saw that her own commanders had taken advantage of the fire circle on the field. While the Lannisters were trapped within the ring, the archers of the Targaryen forces had moved to the higher ground and had begun to fire volley after volley at their enemy, with scores of them that had not been set aflame falling under the arrows that were falling from the sky like rain.

Dany then turned to the northernmost battle and saw that it had come to an end. But now that the fighters had begun to clear, either to join their comrades near the camp or to tend to their wounded, Dany could see the debris of the battle, with an unknown number of corpses littering the field, both man and horse.

Now that the battles had ended with them going in their favour, Dany allowed herself to breathe a sigh of relief, before leaning down and urging Drogon to land. He turned and began to head down, circling down and lower and lower until he landed with a thud not far from where the Unsullied and the Northerners had been fighting.

Now that she was among it, rather than high above it, the sounds and smells of the battle were all around her. The sounds of men moaning and crying out in pain and the sounds of fires crackling filled her ears while the smells of blood, smoke and burning flesh filled her nose. Raising her hand to her nose briefly, Dany began to walk forwards, noting as she did so that her boots were beginning to squelch in the mud underfoot. Whether it was caused by water or blood, Dany nether knew nor wished to.

As she passed through the battlefield, Dany looked from face to face, looking for any she recognised. After a moment of looking between the faces of the Northerners, with only some of them being vaguely recognisable to her, Dany heard her name being called.

Turning towards the sound, she saw Lord Randyll Tarly riding towards her.

“Your Grace,” he said, as he came to a halt next to her, bowing his head.

“Lord Tarly,” Dany replied quickly. “Viserion and Rhaegal have prevented the Lannister commanders from escaping. I want your men to round them up and bring them to me. I want answers from the Tyrells.”

“At once, Your Grace,” the man replied, before turning his horse about and galloping away, shouting as he passed for several men to join him.

Turing away from the retreating figure of Lord Tarly, Dany returned her attention back to the battlefield… and she immediately saw a flash of bright red hair amid the browns and greys of the Northerner’s armour. Dany immediately headed towards it, hoping that it was the person that she thought it was.

True enough, when she got closer she could see that it belonged to the imposing form of Tormund Giantsbane, who was supporting Davos, who had clearly been injured in the battle. Dany hurried over to them, looking around as she did so, expecting to see Jon nearby to his closest friends and advisors.

“Tormund,” she called out happily, when she got close enough. “Ser Davos.”

The two of them turned towards her voice, a little clumsily with Davos leaning onto Tormund for support. When they faced her, Dany could see the grime of battle covering them, along with a steady stream of blood flowing down Tormund’s arm from a gash just above his elbow.

“Ser Davos,” Dany said, looking down to the man’s leg, as he continued to limp slightly as they walked towards her. “Are you well?”

“I am, Your Grace,” he replied, as he looked down at his wounded leg. “Nothing that the maester can’t deal with.”

Dany nodded towards him, with a warm smile, before turning to Tormund. Before she could even open her mouth to voice the question, he waved he concerns away with his injured arm.

“No need to worry about me,” he said, before laughing loudly. “I’ve received worse wounds that this in bed. The mother of my eldest daughter was a wild woman.”

Dany laughed too, before returning her gaze to the surrounding Northerners, looking for Jon. After a few more moments of fruitless searching, Dany gave up and turned back to the two of them.

“Have either of you seen Jon?” she asked, trying to not let her gnawing feeling of concern that show on her face.

“I haven’t seen him since the beginning of the battle,” Tormund replied, his smile fading and being replaced by a look of confusion.

As one, the three of them turned to look out of the throng of people that were still milling around them. Dany then continued her search, growing more and more anxious the longer it went on with no sign of him. She knew that Jon, if he was safe and uninjured, would be taking command of the survivors, ordering the wounded to be tended to and the remaining enemies to be rounded up to prevent their escape.

As she turned her head left and right, looking for any sign of him, a flash of white through the drab colours caught her attention. She immediately headed towards it, increasing her speed as she did so. Pushing her way through a few of the men, with more force than she had wanted, she saw Ghost walking slowly through the battlefield, sniffing at various spots on the field.

“Ghost!” she called out, as she hurried over to him.

The wolf turned at the sound of his name and, once he saw who it was, cocked his head to one side, regarding her with interest.

“Ghost, can you find Jon?” she asked, hearing an almost desperate note creep into her voice.

Whether it was at the mention of his master, or because of her stricken and pleading tone of voice, Ghost became more alert, his ear perking up immediately. He lowered his nose to the ground and move around restlessly, clearly trying to pick up Jon’s scent. Dany was relieved by the ease that it took to get Ghost to understand what was happening. Jon had told her before that he was a very intelligent animal and she had seen him obey all of his commands without hesitation, but it was only now that she fully appreciate how intelligent the direwolf was.

After a few tense minutes, Ghost let out a low howl before running off, with his nose low to the ground. Dany followed behind him, keeping up with him as best she could, with her boots becoming stuck in the thick mud several times. Ghost soon came to a halt in front of a large pile of corpses, both horse and man, and Dany’s heart sank.

It was clearly from when the two lines crashed into each other, where a lot of the Northerner horses had fallen when struck by the Lannister’s spears. Dany remembered when Jon had told of the Battle of the Bastards, when he had nearly died when being crushed underneath the mass of soldiers, and she hoped that this time it hadn’t actually happened.

Ghost began to paw at one of the corpses, with the body barely moving. Dany called out to a couple of Unsullied who were nearby and ordered them to aid. When they got closer, Ghost regarded them for a moment, clearly deciphering what their intentions where. Once he saw that they were working to move the corpses from Jon, Ghost moved slightly to the side to allow them to do so, looking down at their progress, his tail wagging frantically.

After moving a couple of corpses out of the way, Ghost gave out another, louder howl. Dany moved forward in anticipation as the two Unsullied reached down and, after a bit more exertion, they pulled Jon up and out of the pile, mercifully alive. Ghost immediately hurried forwards to stay at his master’s side, his tail wagging frantically in his happiness.

Dany let out a sigh of relief at the sight of him, with a wide smile spreading across her face. As they grew closer, Jon’s eyes found her and she him return her smile. Before she could make a move towards him, Dany saw a flash of red hair storm past her, and she quickly realised that it was Tormund, making his way towards Jon.

“You lucky son of a whore,” Tormund laughed, as he pushed away one of the Unsullied and took Jon’s weight on his shoulder.

Dany saw Jon wince and gasp slightly as he did so, his free hand going to his shoulder. Concerned, Dany began to walk towards the two of them, closing the gap between them very quickly.

When she reached them, Dany threw her arms around Jon’s neck, taking no notice of the thick covering of mud and blood that coated his armour. After a moment, Dany felt Jon’s free hand move up to grip the small of her back. Overwhelmed with relief at his survival, Dany moved her head slightly and kissed him on his cheek, feeling his beard scratch at her lips and tasting the dirt on his face.

They stayed that way for a moment, with their arms around one another, before Dany finally loosened her grip on him, knowing that they both had other matters to attend to. As she took a step back, she saw Jon wince once more, and his eyes flitted down to his shoulder once more.

“Jon?” she said, her concern showing in her voice.

“I must have twisted my arm, when I fell from my horse,” Jon said, as his hand went up to massage his shoulder blade.

“Tormund, you, Jon and Davos should visit the maester,” Dany said, turning to the Wildling. “I’ll have a couple of the men help you get Davos there.”

Tormund nodded and began to walk on, slightly hobbled by the weight of supporting Jon on his shoulder. Dany then indicated for the two Unsullied to aid them, with them nodding their assent and following after Tormund and Jon.

As they left, a movement in the air above them caught Dany’s eye and she looked up to see Viserion and Rhaegal circling above them. Drogon let out a loud roar from behind her and took off to join his siblings, with a strong blast of wind from his wing beat blowing her clothes and hair about her.

_Lord Tarly must have taken the Lannister’s into his custody,_ Dany thought, as she watched the three dragons reunite and begin to fly around each other, snapping playfully at each other. _They would not have left them otherwise._

Dany immediately began to walk towards the main encampment, with her desire for answers over the betrayals growing with every step. With this and her anger guiding her footsteps, the walk to the encampment seemed to be over in no time, even though she knew that it must have taken her a while to trudge through the mud for that distance.

However, before long she began to see the vast number of tents, all underneath numerous Targaryen sigils. With a small smile spreading across her face at the sight of it, in large part because that it had remained largely untouched by the enemy’s attack, with the exceptions being some of the tents on the far outskirts of the camp, that had been struck by a few stray flaming arrows.

As Dany walked up to the camp, the soldiers bowed their heads to her and welcomed her, with a few of them even offering their thanks for her timely arrival. Unsurprisingly her arrival in the camp seemed to spread quickly, as it was mere minutes before she saw Varys and Tyrion making their way towards her.

“Your timing is impeccable, Your Grace,” Tyrion said, with a pleased smirk on his face, bowing his head when they reached her.

“What happened?” she replied sharply. While she was pleased to them both alive and unharmed, there were too many unanswered questions, and serious ones at that, to be attended to, and she didn’t want to have to deal with any of his flippant remarks.

“Why were the Tyrells with those Lannister men? And how were you attacked on two sides?”

“When we had reached Tumbleton, we had divided our forces,” Tyrion explained, any of his previous joviality now gone. “While the bulk of our forces had headed here, around thirty thousand of our men had headed along the Gold Road, led by Olymer Tyrell. They would be taking the most obvious, and likely well reinforced route, while they would be reinforced by a smaller contingent, comprised of Dornish and Tyrell soldiers, who would take the Ocean Road, less populated and situated in a position to allow for flanking manoeuvres.

“Together they would take the Westerlands from Cersei-”

“Which clearly didn’t happen,” Dany interrupted, looking between the two of them, with her eyebrows raised.

“No,” Lord Varys interjected. “It would appear that Olymer Tyrell abandoned our cause and joined the Lannisters.

“However,” he continued, with a tone of interest in his voice, “it would appear that not all of the men agreed with his change of allegiance, as there were no Dornish sigils among the western force, nor did the Tyrell force number around thirty thousand.”

“So, not only did he betray us, but he likely killed all those who opposed him, resulting in us losing thirty thousand men?” Dany replied, a bite of anger in her voice.

Dany was not specifically angry at Tyrion or Varys for this outcome as she could see no reason why they would have suspected the Tyrell’s betrayal and, until proven otherwise, she would give them the benefit of the doubt. However, she was finding it hard to not let the anger and frustration over this setback get into her voice.

“And what of the second army?” she asked trying to gain some composure over her voice. “Where did that come from?”

It was Tyrion who answered, looking out to the northern battlefield, where soldiers were still picking their way through the debris.

“One of the standards they bore was that of House Rosby, one that had remained loyal to Cersei,” he said, returning his gaze to her. “I imagine that many of the conscripts that we were told of were stationed there, as well as in camps further north.

“We had lost contact with a few of our scouts, but we hadn’t been able to investigate further before the attacks. If only we had, then maybe we’d have been able to mount more of a defence.”

Dany sighed deeply, and raised a hand to head. This was a big setback in their plans. Not only that, but it had happened right in front of their enemy, so that everyone in King’s Landing could have seen them being caught by surprise.

_It could have been a lot worse,_ Dany thought, turning to look out at the capital city. _If we hadn’t show up in time, they would have watched the bulk of our forces being decimated._

While she was still angry and concerned about the events that had just happened, and the causes of them, she couldn’t help a rush of awe flood through her at the sight of King’s Landing, the place that she had always heard about since her infancy. Where her family had ruled for generations, sat upon the Iron Throne. From when Aegon the Conqueror had fashioned the throne from the swords of his enemies and all the way up until her father Aerys, the Mad King.

_And now me,_ Dany thought, as she took in what little she could see of the city from their vantage point. _I wonder what name history shall give me?_

She looked up at the Red Keep, visible over the battlements, watching the birds circle around its towering spires. Dany remembered all the stories that she had been told about it, first from Viserys but then also from Varys and Tyrion, when she had asked them about the city. She wondered how it would match up to the image that she had built of it in her mind.

In spite of everything, Dany could help a smile from spreading across her mouth. After a long journey to get here, she could hardly believe that she was finally with touching distance of her goal.

_I wish that I could have shared this moment with Jon,_ Dany thought, as she finally turned away from King’s Landing. _This is his first time seeing the capital as well._

Dany turned just in time to see Lord Randyll Tarly riding over, along with several of his men, with the captured      Lannister commanders in a jail wagon behind them.

“Your Grace,” Lord Tarly said, as he came to a halt and dismounted his horse. “The prisoners, as you requested.”

“Thank you, Lord Tarly,” Dany said, walking forward to stand ahead of Varys and Tyrion, and folding her hands in front of her. “I take it that Olymer Tyrell is one of those captured? I wish to speak to him.”

“At once, Your Grace,” he replied, waving his hand urgently to one of his men, seemingly irritated that they hadn’t immediately moved to follow her command.

Dany had to swallow back her distaste for the man as, while he was one of her most skilled commanders, she did _not_ appreciate or agree with his manner, or with a great many of the stories that she had heard about him. However, she didn’t act on it as, not only were they in front of their own men, but also their captives. While they would not be presenting any information back to Cersei, she did not wish to show them any form of dissent or division within her camp.

Olymer Tyrell was dragged from the wagon, his wrists and ankles shackled, his fair hair streaked with mud and a swelling black eye marring his features. Dany guessed it was either from when he fell from his horse when their retreat was cut off or he resisted when her men had gone to capture him.

“And what of the others, Your Grace?”

“See if they have any useful information about Cersei or her plans,” Dany said, turning to look at Tarly. “Then have them locked up with the other prisoners.

“But make sure that they are treated well,” Dany continued, making sure that her tine left no doubt about how serious she was in this. “Not only will be needed them soon, but I am determined to treat our prisoners better than Cersei does.”

While Dany could see that Tarly had to try hard to not roll his eyes at her mention of needing the soldiers again, and nearly failed at doing so, he nodded and moved to obey her orders.

While the topic of the White Walkers had only come up a couple of times while they had been planning their attack wile on Dragonstone, Randyll Tarly had made his disbelief over it clear. Jon had confided in her that he believed that no matter the evidence presented to him, Lord Tarly would cast it aside and call it a fallacy, purely on the principle that Sam had claimed to kill one.

_He’ll see soon,_ Dany thought, as she once more had to swallow down her anger at Tarly. _Then he’ll see that not only is Jon not a liar, but neither is his son._

As the prisoner wagon was taken away, Dany returned her attention to Olymer Tyrell, now standing in between the two Unsullied men, who had taken position to prevent the man from doing anything foolish.

Taking a step forward, Dany straightened herself up and addressed him.

“Why?” she asked, her anger clear in her voice. “Why did you betray us?”

The Tyrell simply stared back at her for a few moments, his silence infuriating Dany further.

Just when she was about to speak again, to urge him to answer her, he merely shrugged.

“Cersei offered more,” he replied simply.          

Dany merely stared blankly at him, completely at a loss after his answer.

“More?” she replied finally, almost spluttering the word out. “Have I not offered House Tyrell enough? I give you the control of the Reach, restore to you all the lands the Lannisters have taken and give you the means to get revenge for the deaths of your family remembers.”

However, Olymer merely laughed, which only confused and angered Dany even more.

“Why does that matter to me?” he said, raising an eyebrow at her as he took a step forward, his shackles jangling. The two Unsullied men moved in unison to place a hand on each of his shoulders, preventing him from taking another step. “Revenge for Margaery and Loras? Two of my distant cousins whom I’ve only met twice, with neither of them remembering my name the second time. I don’t think so.

“And as for control of the Reach and restoring our lands… you offered that to _Olenna._ She rules our House for now and then, when she dies, she will give control of it to one of her favourites.

“Cersei offered it all to _me.”_

Dany stood there for a moment, completely taken aback by the man’s response.

“So, is that it?” she replied, her distaste clear. “You betrayed us… no, you betrayed _your family_ for your own greed?”

Olymer merely shrugged once more in response, and Dany could hear her own disgust mirrored by the noises of outrage from those assembled, not only Tyron and Varys but by now a small crowd had gathered to witness the traitor.

Taking a deep breath to calm herself, Dany turned to the Unsullied soldiers that still flanked the man.

“Take him away, and lock him up with his new allies,” she said, before turning to Tyrion and Varys. “Once the city is taken, then I will decide what to do with him.”

The two Unsullied obeyed her immediately, with Olymer merely looking disinterested as they began to frogmarch him away. As she watched him go, Dany couldn’t help but shake her head in bewilderment.

“Greed and ambition,” Varys said, as he moved to stand at her side. “The ruin of many men.”

“Have you sent a raven to Lady Olenna yet?” Dany asked.

“Not yet,” Tyrion replied.

“Make sure that you inform her of Olymer’s betrayal… and the reasons behind it,” Dany replied.

“At once, Your Grace.”

Dany nodded and turned away, hoping to head to her tent for a few hours of peace before they would have to begin to decide what to do next in taking the capital.

“I apologise, Your Grace,” Tyrion said, before she had even taken two steps, causing her to stop on the spot and close her eyes in disappointment. “But there is a situation that requires your attention.”

Dany turned back to face him, and saw that he was looking incredibly uncomfortable. A little curious as to the reason behind it, as it was unlikely because he had interrupted her hope of a little peace, Dany gave him an expectant look.

“What is the situation?” she asked.

Tyrion paused for a moment, looking even more uncomfortable and awkward, before answering.

“Jaime,” he replied, shocking Dany. “He tried to kill Ellaria Sand.”


	38. Jaime V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone. Hope you all enjoy the chapter. Please let me know what you think, either down below in the comments or at my Tumblr or Twitter.  
> Next up will be a Jon chapter (featuring a moment that has been HIGHLY anticipated)

 

Jaime

 

Jaime stood in the middle of Daenerys Targaryen’s tent, flanked on either side by one of her Unsullied soldiers. They had shackled his ankles together to slow him down, but they had clearly seen the pointlessness of doing the same to his wrists. Instead the two Unsullied stood so close to him, in readiness of any reckless action of his, that he was often clash elbows with them.

Ahead of him was a raised dais, upon which two throne-like chairs were sat, directly in the centre. The chair to his left sat beneath a black and red standard bearing the three-headed dragon sigil of House Targaryen and, even without this, Jaime would have recognised the woman seated beneath it as Daenerys Targaryen. Her silver hair, striking violet eyes and beautiful features would have marked her as a Targaryen without the sigil behind her.

Dressed in a black leather, almost armour-like, outfit, with her long hair tightly braided behind her head, she was looking at him with an expression of both distaste and anger. Jaime was not surprised by this, as she would know him as her father’s killer, regardless of her knowledge of his horrific actions.

_Regardless of what he did, what he was,_ Jaime thought, as he turned his gaze away from the Targaryen queen. _He was still her father._

The chair to Jaime’s right sat beneath the Stark wolf, and seated there was a dark-haired Northerner, with his arm bandaged up and in a sling across his chest. Despite knowing that it was Jon Snow, it took him a few moments before Jaime recognised him. It had been years since their meeting in the Winterfell courtyard, where Jaime had mocked the then teenager’s decision to join the Night’s Watch, and the passage of time had clearly had an impact on him.

His hair was longer now, tied into a bun behind his head, and his face, now no longer clean shaven and covered up a short beard, was marked by several scars, the most prominent of which was the vertical one over his left eye. He had also abandoned the Night’s Watch black, which he had already been wearing the last time, even before he had joined their order, to be replaced by the traditional Northern garb of boiled leather over a woollen shirt.

It was an outfit that his father had often worn and, now that he was older and dressed similarly, Jaime could certainly see the similarities between father and son. Not only in physical appearance, but also in the stoicness of his manner.

Looking away from the two monarchs, Jaime turned his head to look at the others in the tent. Standing at Daenerys’ shoulder was a tall, bearded man, dressed in Northern garb, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. He looked vaguely familiar to him, but it took him several moments before he recognised him as Ser Jorah Mormont. Jaime knew that he had been knighted by Robert Baratheon for his valour in the Battle of Pyke, in the Greyjoy Rebellion, but his most recent memory of the Northern man was of facing him, and losing to him, at the tourney of Lannisport, in celebration of the ending of the Rebellion.

However, Jaime knew that Jorah had later fallen from grace, being exiled for selling men into slavery. The last he had heard of the man, it was hearing that he had become a part of Daenerys’ inner circle and one of her most trusted advisors.

Seated on Daenerys’ other side was Varys and his brother. Varys was looking at Jaime with an impassive look on his face, with his only form of acknowledgment towards him being a slight nod of his head. Jaime merely shook his head in exasperation.

_Well he hasn’t changed,_ Jaime thought.

Tyrion was sat between Varys and the queen and was the only one of them to give him a small smile when their eyes met, rather than a look of distaste or one of disinterest.

Jaime looked further to his left and saw that Ellaria Sand and the three Sand Snakes were stood off to one side. Meeting Ellaria’s eyes, who merely scowled back at him, her expression clearly showing off her loathing towards him, Jaime felt a rush of anger towards her.

_Despite all she has done,_ Jaime thought savagely, finding himself instinctively taking a step towards her, and being stopped in his tracks by the Unsullied. _She still has the fucking nerve to stand there and glare at me like_ I’m _the animal!_

Jaime saw that two of the Sand Snakes were glaring at him as well, with similar looks of anger and hatred etched on the features. However, he was also surprised to see that the third was not, merely looking down at the floor of the tent, her expression pensive, only looking up occasionally to share a brief look with Tyrion before looking away quickly.

_Nymeria,_ Jaime realised, as he observed the two of them.

Remembering all Tyrion’s talk about using Nymeria against her siblings, he wondered what, and when, Tyrion was planning to do about it.

The silence in the tent was palpable, with the tension thick in the air. Desperate to alleviate it, Jaime turned back to Jon.

“It has been a long time,” he said, feeling everyone’s attention turn to him as he met Jon’s eye. “I hear that congratulations are in order. I imagine that you are the first Snow to become a king.”

There was another small bout of silence, in which Jon held his gaze, before the Northerner smirked slightly.

“I probably was,” he replied, nodding his head a little. “But that was before I found out that my brother Robb had legitimised me before his death. I am now Jon Stark.”

Jaime’s eyes widened in surprise at this news. It wasn’t often that a bastard was legitimised in such a way, nor was it common for said bastard to go on to become a king.

However, thinking back, Jaime realised that the Young Wolf’s decision made sense. They had just received word of the sacking of Winterfell by the Ironborn, resulting in the deaths of the two youngest Stark boys. Meanwhile, Sansa was being held captive in King’s Landing, and Arya’s whereabouts were unknown.

_Leaving Jon,_ Jaime thought, nodding his head slightly in understanding.

Looking back towards Daenerys, he could see that her expression towards him had not changed, with her hatred for him clear on her face. Feeling emboldened by something, possibly just the knowledge that the odds were already against him, Jaime addressed her.

“You despise me, don’t you?” he said simply, looking her dead in the eye. “For killing your father.”

Daenerys started slightly at being addressed by him so brazenly, her expression showing more confusion than anger.

“Yes,” she replied simply. “I do.”

“Even in spite of what he was?” Jaime responded.

Daenerys paused for a moment, looking down into her lap, folding her hands with a conflicted look on her face.

“I know that Aerys was a monster,” she said, and Jaime could hear a hint of sadness in her voice. “One that earned his name of the Mad King. I know of his crimes against the people of King’s Landing, against the Starks-”

“And your mother?” Jaime butted in.

There was a beat of silence at his words, with Daenerys looking stunned. Jaime saw that Jon turned towards her, with a look of concern on his face. Jaime knew that he was probably pushing his luck, not knowing about the extent of the Targaryen’s temper or how long it would last, but he was sure that this meeting would end with his execution, so he decided to keep going.

“Do you know what he did to her?”

Daenerys looked at him for a moment, looking confused, but with a hint of curiosity too. After a moment, and a momentary glance towards Tyrion, she gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

Taking a deep breath, Jaime met her eyes once more and proceeded.

“Your parent’s marriage was not a happy one, and it only got worse the more that he descended into his madness.

“He-” Jaime faltered for a moment, realising that what he was about to say would hurt the woman sat opposite him. Taking a deep breath, he continued. “He would often rape your mother, often after he had executed someone.”

Daenerys’ face contorted at this, shutting her eyes and turning away from him. Jaime felt a stab of pity for her at seeing her discomfort at this revelation. However, after a brief pause, she returned her attention to him, and he could tell, by the steely way she was staring back at him, that she was almost daring him to continue.

Impressed by the woman’s resilience and strength, Jaime did so.

“One of the times was after he burned his Hand, Lord Chelsted, alive after he confronted Aerys about his plan to blow up King’s Landing with wildfire. Ser Darry and I stood guard outside his room while he did so.”

“And did nothing to stop it,” she said, her anger and disgust clear in her voice. Whether it was directed towards him or her father, Jaime wasn’t sure.

“I did say to Ser Darry that we were sworn to protect the Queen as well,” Jaime countered. “Do you know what his reply was?

“‘But not from him’,” Jaime spat, feeling angry at the memory.

The complete blanket of silence returned to the tent after his declaration, with both Daenerys and Jon looking at him with looks of both interest and unease. However, Jaime was barely paying attention, as the memory of that event was running through his mind, having to stand guard outside the door while the muffled sounds of what was happening inside was just about audible.

Jaime gritted his teeth and swallowed hard, pushing his anger at the memory away for the time being.

“And how many more atrocities did you stand by and watch, doing nothing to stop them?” Daenerys asked him, although Jaime could tell that there was less malice and more uncertainty in her challenge of him this time.

“ _Many_ people stood by and did nothing,” Jaime replied patiently. “Not just me. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard at the time, Ser Gerold Hightower, was one of them.

“After we had to watch Rickard and Brandon Stark being killed,” Jaime saw Jon stiffen slightly at this, “Ser Gerold told me that I had sworn a vow to guard the king, not to judge him.”     

Seeing a note of hesitation and surprise on Daenerys’ face, Jaime pressed on.

“Your Grace, I know you hate me,” he said. “A lot of people do, and I have earned that hatred by the list of horrific acts that I have committed. You can hate me for killing your father, in spite of you knowing the monster that he was. You can hate me for that fact that my father betrayed yours in the Rebellion and forced you and your brother into hiding for all these years.

“But if you are to hate me for not doing or saying anything about your father’s actions, then surely you should feel the same to all those who did so in the same way?” Jaime continued, leaning forward slightly. “And if you wish to see another who did so, then I suggest you look to your right.”

As he said this, Jaime turned and stared pointedly at Varys, who shifted in his chair slightly at his gaze.

“While Lord Varys may not have been able to do anything to physically stop your father,” Jaime continued, looking back at Daenerys. “He was your father’s spymaster and could have easily said the right words into his ear, as Lord Varys’ words have often had more influence, or done more damage, than _any_ blade.”

The tent was silent once more at this, and Jaime could see Daenerys looking more conflicted than she had a moment ago. No doubt, judging by the sideways looks she was giving Varys, she was considering his words.

After a moment, she looked back at Jaime and gave him a small nod, with a look of conciliation and understanding on her face. However, before Jaime could say anything more, she turned to address Jorah Mormont.

“Ser Jorah,” she said, her tone low and concerned. “You are the Lord Commander of my Queensguard, sworn to protect me.”

As she said this, she turned in her chair even more, to look the Northerner dead in the eye.

“Do not be like my father’s,” she continued, and Jaime could hear the passion and almost _fear_ in her voice. “If you disagree with any of my decisions, if you think that I am losing my way, being too extreme or not working in the best interests of my people, then I _want_ you to challenge me, to judge me.

“I am not my father,” she continued, turning away from Jorah and sitting up straighter in her chair, “and I will not punish you for voicing your concerns.”

Jaime could tell that, by the tone of her voice, that while she had been directed towards Jorah, her words were meant for everyone. Either way, Jaime was a little surprised by the disparity between the Targaryen girl and her father. Her words sounded sincere, and Jaime was intrigued by the note of fear in her voice when she was talking to Jorah, which was in complete contrast to how Aerys acted, expecting complete and utter loyalty, with harsh punishments given out to those who opposed or questioned him.

While Jaime was unwilling to make any assumptions about her character, as even King Aerys hadn’t been regarded as the Mad King for his entire reign, but this Targaryen did _seem_ to be of a better temperament than her father.

_And Cersei,_ Jaime thought sadly.

“Your Grace,” came a voice from their left, interrupting his thoughts. “What is going to happen to him, for trying to kill our mother?”

Jaime turned to the speaker and saw that it was the youngest of the Sand Snakes, who was looking towards Daenerys with a look of almost child-like innocence. From what Tyrion had told him, this was Tyene Sand, and Jaime knew that this display was merely an act, as the youngest Sand was known for using her youthful appearance to put people at a disadvantage.

And it seemed as if Daenerys was momentarily taken in by the display, as her impassive expression, which had only recently replaced the confusion over the recent revelations, broke slightly as a flash of pity crossed her face.

However, this didn’t last long as Obara also spoke up.

“He tried to murder our mother in cold blood,” she snarled, looking at Jaime with a look of pure hatred, one that he turned in kind. “His life should be forfeit.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jaime saw Daenerys’ expression change once more, this time to one of annoyance.

“I will hear what happened first,” she said sharply, her tone of voice resolute and determined. “And hear his reasons for acting as he did. So, until I have heard everything that I want from him, hold your tongue.”

The last three words were spoken with such conviction and in such a firm tone of voice, leaving no room for discussion or misunderstanding, that the Martell was cowed into silence. Jaime couldn’t suppress a savage smirk from crossing his face as he saw Obara’s furious expression turn into one of shock and almost fear.

Despite being incredibly pleased at the sight of the Martell’s being humbled, Jaime knew that there was worse coming for them.

After glaring at the elder Martell sister for a moment longer, Daenerys turned back to face Jaime, and raised her eyebrows.

“So,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him slightly, “tell us, why did you attempt to murder Lady Ellaria?”

Jaime looked at Tyrion briefly who gave a solemn nod, before looking over to the Martells with a look of loathing of his own. Taking a deep breath, knowing that the time had come for their crimes to be exposed, Jaime looked back at Daenerys.

“For _their_ murder of Myrcella Baratheon.”

Jaime saw a look of shock appear on both Daenerys and Jon’s faces, but it was the reaction of Ellaria and the Sand Snakes that surprised him the most.

Ellaria’s initial look of shock was quickly masked by one of indignation, as if she was angry that she was even being _accused_ of such a crime. Obara and Tyene were a lot slower to mask their look of shock, before they then too acted scandalised of being accused, with Obara even placing her hand of a small dagger at her belt.

Nymeria however, looking neither shocked nor angry at Jaime’s words. On the contrary there only seemed to be a look of both sadness and resignation on her face.

Daenerys quickly regained her composure.

“I wasn’t told about this,” she said, her shock evident in her voice.

She turned to look at Tyrion who, after meeting her eye, nodded solemnly, confirming the story. With a look of sadness on her face, Daenerys bowed her head.

“I’m sorry, Tyrion,” she said softly, her sadness and pity for her friend clear in her voice.

Tyrion held her gaze for a few moments, inclining his head towards her in gratitude for her concern. However, soon Daenerys returned her attention to Jaime, looking both curious and confused.

“How do you know that they murdered your niece?” she asked.

“Because I saw Ellaria do it,” Jaime replied, turning to glare at the woman in question for a moment, who merely maintained her look of feigned shock.

“How so?”

“Before we boarded the ship that would return us to King’s Landing,” Jaime explained, turning back to the Targaryen. “Ellaria kissed Myrcella, and before were even out of sight of Dorne, she had collapsed and died from poison.”

“So, because I apologised to her and asked her forgiveness, and wished her well as she left us that means I killed her?” Ellaria said, her tone sounding both surprised but also hurt, as though she was offended by the accusation of killing the young woman.

“No,” Jaime replied savagely. “The fact you kissed her, while you and your family have a known hatred of ours, and not even an hour later she died of poison, while your family is known for using _poison_! That and you had already threatened Myrcella before!”

“How had they threatened her?” Daenerys said loudly, cutting over the Martells, as Obara and Ellaria looked as though they were going to interrupt him.

“The reason that I had gone to Dorne in the first place had been because we had received a threatening message, with Myrcella’s necklace held in the jaws of viper. When I brought this to the attention of Prince Doran, not only did he have no knowledge of it, but even he seemed suspicious of Ellaria.”

Daenerys turned to look at Ellaria, raising her eyebrows suspiciously, anticipating an answer. Ellaria laughed softly at this, although Jaime could see that there was a hint of nervousness behind it.

“Your Grace,” she said, bowing her head meekly. “Why would _I_ want to kill this young girl?”

The woman’s tone of both bemused ignorance and mild indignation was beginning to infuriate Jaime, particularly as he knew that it was all feigned.

“For the same reason that you murdered Prince Doran and his bodyguard,” Jaime snarled back at her, unable to keep the anger and frustration from his voice any longer. “For your own revenge, on people that had done nothing to you!”

Obara hissed slightly in anger towards him and took a step towards him, her hand on her blade once more. While Jaime knew that it was nothing more than a pathetic attempt to intimidate and unnerve him, which it completely failed in doing, the Unsullied on Jaime’s left took a step forward of his own, inclining his spear towards her slightly. This had the effect of stopping her dead in her tracks, a look of concern on her face.

In any other circumstance, Jaime would have thanked the Unsullied for putting an end to her pointless bravado. However, this time he merely kept his thoughts to himself, and held the young Martell’s furious gaze.

“An interesting theory, Lannister,” Ellaria said, who too was glaring at Jaime. Her offended and sad tone of voice was gone now, to be replaced by one of barely contained malice and scorn. “But there is no one who can support your story. And it is merely the word of a Lannister against a Martell and, as you have said yourself, it is no secret that our two families despise each other.”

She looked at him for a moment, with an almost imperceptible smirk on her face, but the look of smug superiority was hard to miss. However, she was clearly taking advantage of the fact that Daenerys couldn’t currently see her face. Under normal circumstance, this expression would be enough for Jaime’s patience and temper to snap. However, this time Jaime merely smirked slightly back at her, before looking past her to lock eyes with his brother.

Tyrion too could barely contain his enjoyment over the truth finally being revealed.  

“Not _just_ the word of a Lannister,” Tyrion said, his wide smile clear.

Ellaria and the two Sand Snakes spun around to face him, with them clearly being too preoccupied with this new development to notice that Nymeria hadn’t reacted in the same way that they had, and still had the same look of grim determination on her face.

“What do you mean?” Obara snapped at him, and Jaime was pleased to hear that there was a definite note of panic in her voice now.

Tyrion didn’t reply to her question, and for a few moments the three of them glared back at him, demanding answers. Jaime however was watching Nymeria as she, after a moment’s further hesitation, walked forward into the centre of the tent, slightly ahead of Jaime, and turned to face Daenerys.

Every eye in the tent was fixed on her, with different expressions on their faces. Daenerys, Jon and Jorah Mormont had looks of confusion and interest, Tyrion and Varys had looks of success that their plan had worked. And Ellaria and the two sisters looked completely dumbfounded at Nymeria’s action, looking too shocked to either say or do anything in response.

“Your Grace,” Nymeria said, bowing her towards the Targaryen. “Everything that Ser Jaime said is true. We _did_ kill Myrcella, as well as our uncle Doran and Aero.”

This broke through their looks of shock, which quickly turned to ones of cold fury, with them looking daggers at her. The Unsullied on Jaime’s left, as well as a couple that had been standing guard on the edge of the tent, sensed danger and moved towards them, to keep them from either escaping or attacking Nymeria. Daenerys had clearly noticed the looks on their faces, revealing their guilt, and her expression too changed into one of anger.

To keep Jaime in place, the Unsullied on Jaime’s right, who had released his grip on him while he had been talking, took a vice-like grip on his arm.

However, Jaime wasn’t going to make any attempt to move.

“You conniving little cunt!” Obara snapped, attempting to take a step towards Nymeria, although she ended up struggling futilely against one of the Unsullied, who barely seemed to be struggling to hold her back. “You betrayed us! Betrayed your family!”

“We did that first!” Nymeria yelled back at her, and Jaime could hear the emotion in her voice. “We betrayed Father’s memory, and that of Elia, when we murdered their brother and nephew!”

Nymeria paused for a moment, glaring at her sisters. Her anger and guilt were clear in her every word.

“At times I am glad that Father is gone,” she said suddenly, and there was a sadness to her voice now, sad that she had to admit such a thing. “Because if he could see what we’ve done in his name, he would be ashamed of us.”

Nymeria’s voice broke at the end of the sentence, and her eyes fell to the floor of the tent, her shoulders slumped in defeat and remorse. However, her words seemed to have fallen on deaf ears, as both of her sisters and Ellaria seemed unmoved by her words.

“Traitorous bitch!” Tyene snarled. Unlike her sister, she wasn’t attempting to struggle against the Unsullied soldiers in front of them, obviously understanding, very wisely, that her thin frame would do nothing against them.

“Explain yourself,” Daenerys said fiercely, as she stood up. Jaime could hear that any confusion was gone from her voice now to be replaced by anger. “For what reason would you kill not only a young woman, but also a family member?”

Daenerys’ voice rung throughout the tent, her fury at the Martell’s clear to see. However, Ellaria, Obara and Tyene seemed unbowed and unrepentant for what they had done. In fact, Obara straightened herself up before addressing Daenerys.

“For our father!”

Jaime’s temper snapped at this.

“You deluded, fucking bitch!” he yelled, feeling the Unsullied man redouble his grip on his arm, anticipating an attempt on the Sand Snakes. “Oberyn _chose_ to fight in Tyrion’s trial. He wasn’t forced. He wasn’t assassinated by us. He chose to fight, knowing the risks involved, and he died.

“And in response you kill Myrcella, who had _nothing_ to do with it! Even if we _had_ plotted to assassinate your father, she would have had no knowledge of it!”

None of the seemed moved or convinced by his reasoning in the slightest, with Obara even giving a small shrug in response, which caused Jaime’s temper to rise even further.

Ellaria paused for a moment, then turned to Jaime with a look of vindictive pleasure on her face.

“We killed her because she was the only one of your family that we could reach,” she said, clearly no longer bothering to maintain the fiction of their innocence. “Because we knew that it would hurt the Lannisters to lose her, like it hurt the Martells to lose Elia and Oberyn. _That_ is why we killed your niece.”

These last words were hurled at Jaime with such venom and fury it was as if she was trying to cause him physical pain with them. However, far from cowering and wounding him, they emboldened his resolve.

“No,” he replied, straightening up to his full height. “You didn’t kill my niece. You killed my _daughter_.”

As he expected, this declaration drew every eye in the tent to him, with everyone giving him looks of surprise.

“Myrcella’s last words were that she was glad that I am her father,” Jaime explained, feeling a lump come to his constricted throat as he remembered her looking up at him as she said it, a smile on her face. “And I will _not_ dishonour her memory by denying that she is my child.”

The image of his daughter smiling up at him before embracing him changed into seeing her lying lifeless on the floor of the cabin, with blood streaking from her nose, over her lips and down her chin. His throat constricted further, and Jaime squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the image of his daughter’s corpse.

“Unsullied,” came Daenerys’ voice. Jaime inwardly thanked the interruption from his recollection, welcoming anything to distract him. “Place these women in cells.

“And keep them separated,” she continued. “We don’t want them killing each other before I have decided what to do with them.”

Ellaria, Obara and Tyene were escorted from the tent first, with Jaime feeling a surge of savage pleasure at seeing them finally being imprisoned for their crimes. Ellaria was escorted out first, her nose in the air, her expression merely being of contempt and defiance. Tyene was next, with an Unsullied on either side of her, with both of them towering over the young woman. While she remained silent, she was looking worried by what was happening, and Jaime could see her looking expectantly towards her mother, as though she had some idea or plan for what to do.

_Not this time,_ Jaime thought ferociously.

Obara, on the other hand, did not go quietly. Jaime had always perceived her as the most militant and aggressive of the sisters, and she proved him right. Rather than let herself being led from the tent, like her sister and Ellaria, she struggled against the Unsullied as they began to drag her towards the tent entrance, hurling curses and insults at them as she did so.

A third man lowered his spear and jabbed the point into her back gently, causing her to turn around aggressively, to see who else was intervening. When she saw the spear levelled at her, her struggling stopped. With a dark look on her face, she was escorted from the tent, the third Unsullied keeping the tip of his spear in the small of her back.

As the tent flaps closed behind them, the atmosphere in the tent changed almost instantly, with it becoming a lot less tense. However, Daenerys’ attention turned to the remaining sister and, while her expression was nowhere near as harsh and furious as it had been with the others, her disapproval could be clearly seen.

Another couple of Unsullied stepped forward to escort her from the tent. Nymeria turned and began to walk from the tent, with no struggle or protest, her head bowed. However, when she reached Jaime, she stopped, and he saw the Unsullied’s grip on her, which had been very loose, tighten suddenly in anticipation.

However, Nymeria merely raised her head, and met Jaime’s eye. He could see the sadness and remorse in her dark eyes as she swallowed hard.

“Ser Jaime,” she said, with her voice equally showing her sorrow and guilt. “I am sorry.”

Jaime stood there for a moment, completely stunned. He couldn’t barely believe what he had just heard, to the point where he was half convinced that he had imagined it. However, the earnest expression on her face, as well as the expressions of shock from everyone else in the tent, showed that he hadn’t.

After a moment of deep thought, Jaime nodded to her.

“I cannot accept your apology,” he said solemnly. “My daughter is dead and, while you may not have been the one to have taken her life, you aided in the act.”

Nymeria nodded in understanding, looking a little disappointed but not surprised by this, clearly having expected this reply.

“But,” Jaime continued, causing her to meet his eyes once more, looking curious. “I thank you for offering an apology. It is not something that I would expect from your family.”

She looked back at him for a moment, before nodding her head in acknowledgment. She then continued on their way of out of the tent, once more showing no sign of resistance against the Unsullied on either side of her.

Watching the young woman go, Jaime couldn’t help but feel a glimmer of respect for her. He knew all too well the foolish actions that someone could do in order to do what they thought was best for their family. But he also knew that it would have taken a lot of bravery to not only turn against their family in order to repent for their actions, but also to offer an apology to him, knowing that there was good chance that he would merely disregard it.

_So, brother,_ Jaime thought, with a small smile. _It would seem that your trust in her was well founded._

Turning back to face ahead once more, Jaime saw Daenerys turn to Varys.

“So, Lord Varys,” she said. “I assume there is a reason why this important information about one of my biggest allies was kept from me? Especially as you seem to have known about it for some time.”

Despite the disapproving tone in her voice, Jaime saw that Varys neither flinched nor seemed uncomfortable in any way and couldn’t help by have a grudging respect for his manner, no doubt born by being the Master of Whisperers for four different kings.

Varys merely bowed his head slightly as he replied.

“My Queen, it is true that I knew of the Martell’s actions, in fact it was since I went to recruit them for your cause. But I didn’t have any solid proof of it. My word is not highly regarded in the kingdoms, and if you were to punish them based purely on my word then it would reflect badly upon you and could turn many people against you.

“And I did not want to sow the seeds of doubt between us and our allies without the proof needed to reveal their crimes, especially when their armies were so valuable to us in retaking the kingdoms from Cersei.”

Jaime saw Daenerys give a small, almost involuntary nod of her head in response to Varys’ words. However, after a quick glance towards him, still standing the middle of the tent, awaiting her decision of his fate.

Daenerys sat up a little straighter in her chair, turning herself back to Varys once more.

“We will have a further discussion about you keeping further secrets from me in private,” she said sternly.

Varys bowed his head once more in response, his expression not changing. As he shook his head slightly at the man’s unflappable nature, Jaime saw Tyrion lean forward out of the corner of his eye.

“Your Grace, if I may ask?” he said. “What will become of the Martells?”

Jaime saw Daenerys look down at the floor for a moment, with a look of deep thought on her face.

“Is there anyone else that can take over House Martell for the time being?” she asked, looking back over towards Varys.

“Yes, my Queen,” he replied. “Manfrey Martell. He is a cousin of Prince Doran, and had been his castellan, taking a lot of the responsibilities for ruling when Doran’s health began to fail.”

“Very well,” she said, nodding slightly. “Send a raven to him and inform him that he is currently in charge. I will deal with the punishment for the Sand Snakes once the capital has been taken, along with Olymer Tyrell.”

“Your Grace, I would ask for leniency for Nymeria Martell,” Tyrion said, and Jaime could see that even he looked surprised by his daring for asking. “While she certainly should be punished for her part in the deaths of Doran, Hotah and Myrcella, without her aid, it would have been a lot harder to get the proof of their crimes, if we could even do it at all.”

Jaime saw Daenerys give Tyrion a strange, appraising look, as though she was trying to understanding his reasoning for asking so intently on her behalf. Jaime too was intrigued at his brother’s request.

_Why Tyrion?_ Jaime thought, as he looked at his brother. _What is it about this woman that makes you so insistent to help her?_

While Jaime knew that without her they would still be looking for a way to prove the truth about what had happened, he knew that her role had been played.

He knew that Tyrion’s judgment was always weakest when around a beautiful woman, with Tysha being the example that came to his kind first. Swallowing down the distasteful memories of that encounter, and of his own participation in them, Jaime looked at Tyrion, wondering of his brother was making the same mistake again, or if this was simply an act of gratitude towards the woman for having helped them.

After a moment of silent thought, Daenerys nodded towards Tyrion.

“Her crimes are grave Tyrion, but when I render judgment on them, I will take her cooperation into consideration.”

Jaime saw Tyrion give the queen a grateful nod of his head, before sitting himself back into his chair and looking back at Jaime. Jaime returned his gaze, making sure to wordlessly ask for answers to satisfy his curiosity. However, other than a small smile that was barely visible through his beard, Tyrion gave no reply to him.

After looking at him for a moment more, furrowing his brow slightly in curiosity, Jaime returned his attention to Daenerys, who was now looking at him, her hands clasped in her lap.

“And now to deal with the reason why we are here,” she said, as she met Jaime’s eye.

As he braced himself for the axe to drop, both figuratively and literally, he saw Jon lean in close to speak to Daenerys urgently. As the two of them spoke in hushed tones for a few moments, Jaime looked over to Tyrion and Varys, who looked as intrigued by this development as he was.

After a moment, the two monarchs separated slightly, with both of the looking pleased by what they had been speaking about. As Daenerys returned her attention back to Jaime, Jon leaned back slightly and beckoned Jorah Mormont over.

“Jaime Lannister,” Daenerys said loudly, clearly trying to gain his attention.

Jaime averted his attention from the two Northerners with difficulty, intrigued by what was happening as Jorah nodded his understanding and hurried from the tent, and back to the Targaryen.

“Because of the circumstances surrounding the death of your daughter at the hands of the Martells, and because you didn’t actually kill or even hurt any of them, I am willing to let your actions go unpunished. In this situation, their crimes far outweigh yours.”

Jaime stood there for a few seconds, a little stunned by her words, before his brain processed what she had said. Hardly daring to believe his luck, Jaime nodded his head in thanks, and was about to open his mouth to vice his gratitude when she spoke once more.

“However,” she continued, her voice now containing a steely tone to it, “there are _plenty_ of other crimes that you have committed that you need to atone for.

“One of which being your attempted murder of King Jon’s brother.”

Jaime instinctively looked towards Jon, who was looking steadily at him. While Jon’s expression was not one of pure anger, the tension in his jaw and his narrowed eyes showed how he was feeling towards Jaime.

However, Jaime couldn’t blame him.

Remembering back to that day in Winterfell, atop a ruined tower in the Winterfell keep with Cersei and being discovered by the young boy, who had seemingly scaled the outside of the tower, however impossible it had seemed at the time. Jaime remembered how he had pushed the boy from the window, before returning to his sister’s embrace, believing that he had done the right thing for the two of them.

The memory sickened Jaime to his stomach and knew that he could not and _would not_ argue with being punished for such an act.

“We will attack the capital within a few days,” Daenerys announced. “And when we do, you will accompany our forces into the city.”

Jaime nodded hesitantly, unsure about what was happening and what exactly the monarchs ahead of him were planning.

“And when you do,” she continued. “You will be given the chance to complete the task that you set for yourself, the act that resulted in your incarceration.”

Jaime’s breath caught in his throat for a moment, seeing that his shock was mirrored on the faces of both Tyrion and Varys.

“Killing the Mountain,” Jaime said quietly, his mouth and throat suddenly as dry as a desert.

Daenerys nodded in response and Jaime let out a long breath.

As punishments go it wasn’t a terrible one as, while it would almost certainly result in his death, they were giving him a last chance to finally get his revenge upon that monstrosity and his twisted creator. As the realisation dawned on him of his chance to get to Qyburn, and to fulfil his promise to kill the maester, Jaime couldn’t stop a rush of savage satisfaction at the opportunity.

However, this was soon cooled as his reason caught up with his emotions.

“It will be a tall order for me to kill the Mountain,” Jaime said hollowly. “Not only because of the beast’s monstrous size and strength, but also because he will likely be as close to Cersei as her shadow. And, with a large army bearing down on her, she will likely have a small army of her won, simply to protect her.

“If I even manage to make it to the Mountain, then it will be a small miracle.”

To Jaime’s surprise, Jon merely chuckled at his words.

“You won’t be going alone, Ser Jaime,” Jon said, a small smirk on his face.

Jaime opened his mouth to reply, his confusion and interest almost at a fever pitch, when he heard the sounds of footfalls entering the tent once more.

Distracted by this interruption, Jaime turned from the dais towards the noise and saw that Jorah Mormont had re-entered, accompanied by a large, long haired man. It took a brief look at the second man’s face for Jaime to recognise him, despite it being years since he had seen the man, causing Jaime to jolt in shock at the sight.

There was no mistaking the burnt face of the Hound.


	39. Jon VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone. Sorry for the longer wait for this chapter. I wanted to take a bit longer on this one, as there are a few very important character interactions that I wanted to do justice. Hopefully I have and you all enjoy the chapter. As always let me know what you think in the comments.  
> Next up will be a Sansa chapter

 

Jon

 

The following day, Jon was walking through the encampment, which had now nearly doubled in size, being bolstered by the Northern and Unsullied forces. As he walked from his tent in the section inhabited by his Northern and Wildling forces, he saw that many of the men bowed their heads towards him.

As he looked upwards towards his destination, atop the hill where the Targaryen force had pitched their tents weeks ago, he reached up to feel at his still tender shoulder. Luckily the maester had told him that there would be no lasting damage, that he had merely twisted and strained it from his fall. They had decided to attack the capital in two days’ time, so given these days of rest he hoped that his shoulder would be ready for when they attacked.

Jon had spent the better part of the morning in a strategy meeting with several of their commanders, including Lord Randyll Tarly. While it was an important meeting in regard to the coming battle, Jon was very pleased when it was over. He always found it hard to be in close proximity to Randyll Tarly for any length of time, as he could feel his temper rise whenever the Lord said something that showed his entitlement or prejudice. It didn’t take much thought to imagine the Lord turning the same barbs towards his son, and this would always make Jon’s temper rise even further.

Gritting his teeth, Jon breathed deeply to calm himself and to cast away his angry thoughts about the Lord, unclenching his hands which had coiled into fists.

Before long, Jon had entered the Targaryen part of the camp, with the Northern sigil being replaced by those of the Dornish and Reach houses, with the Targaryen dragon being the most prominent. He continued his way through the camp, heading towards Tyrion’s tent, where his friend had invited him to catch up over a goblet of wine.

 _Or a whole jug, knowing Tyrion,_ thought Jon, with a wry smile.

While Jon was in no real mood to drink, he did want to catch up with his friend, as he was sure that a lot had happened for them to catch up on.

Before long, Jon had arrived at the tent, which was easily recognisable as Tyrion’s from both its size and also by the sigil of the Hand of the Queen that flew outside.

The Unsullied soldiers that stood guard outside bowed their heads to Jon as he approached, before opening the tent flaps for him. Jon nodded his thanks as he lowered his head and entered the tent.

He quickly found Tyrion, hunched over a pile of papers on his desk. However, he must have heard Jon’s entrance as he immediately raised his head towards, a relieved smile spreading over his face.

“Thank the gods you are here, Jon,” he said, leaning back in his chair and stretching. “It gives me a chance to put these tedious affairs aside for a few moments.

“Please, have a seat,” he said, indicating to the chair sat opposite him, before getting down from his chair to head over to a small side table to grab the jug and goblets from it.

Smirking slightly, Jon sat down. However, the sudden movement sent a spasm of pain through his shoulder, causing him to grunt and raise a hand to hold it. It was nowhere near as painful as it had been, and Jon knew that it would likely be mostly gone by the time the battle came or be at least manageable enough for him to fight.

Tyrion headed back over to the desk and, after reseating himself opposite Jon, filled both of the goblets. Jon took the goblet, with a polite nod and, after a taking a small sip, he placed it upon the desk.

“So, Jon,” Tyrion said, placing his own goblet upon the desk, without taking a drink. “What has happening since we last saw each other?”

Jon swallowed down another mouthful of wine, his mind beginning to race.

 _Do I tell him the truth about my parentage?_ Jon wondered. _He is a friend, and one of Daenerys’ closest advisors. I’m sure he could help, either with advice or in helping to keep the truth secret._

But Jon wasn’t sure. The more people that knew the truth, the more likely it was that the secret would be revealed. To give him time to think, and come to a decision, Jon jumped ahead slightly.

“Well, my brother Robb’s will was discovered,” Jon said, looking into his goblet. “And in it, we found that he had legitimised me in the event of his death.”  

“Which would have stopped Winterfell from passing onto either of your sisters, both of whom were in Lannister hands,” Tyrion replied, nodding in understanding. “At least to the best of their knowledge. A smart plan.”

“One that I imagine that Lady Catelyn wouldn’t have been pleased with,” Jon said, having the familiar feeling of isolation that he’d always felt whenever Lady Catelyn had cast him aside or put him down as a child.

“Oh?” Tyrion said, raising an eyebrow at him across the table.

“She had hated me for as long as I could have remembered,” Jon said, shrugging slightly. “She would likely have suggested that Robb name _anyone_ else as his successor, rather than me.”

“Well, if she did, then it would appear that your brother had more sense than that,” Tyrion replied.

Jon met his friend’s eye, looking at him curiously. Tyrion smiled slightly at his look of bemusement.

“Naming one of Eddard Stark’s surviving sons, even a bastard, as his heir would be a better move than to name a cousin or distant relative as his heir.”

Jon shifted slightly in his seat at this, a move that Tyrion either didn’t notice or didn’t show that he did.

“And not only that, but you were clearly the right choice for your brother to choose. Since becoming king you have done a lot for your people and gained their loyalty in return.”

Jon smiled back at Tyrion, feeling both grateful but underserving of his friend’s praise.         

“So how does it feel?” Tyrion asked, smiling at him across the table. “To finally be a full Stark?”

While Jon knew that his friend was trying to make him feel good about it, knowing that as a bastard this was something that Jon had always wanted. However, now the words simply acted a jolt to his system.

“I’m not,” Jon replied before he could stop himself, meeting his friend’s eye. “I never was a Stark while growing up and now, despite the name I have, I’m still not.”

Tyrion expression changed into one of confusion and interest. He leaned forward in his chair, keeping eye contact with Jon, his wine goblet sat next to him ignored.

“This doesn’t sound like simple self-pity over your bastard birth,” he said. “What was it you learned?”

Jon sat there for a moment, wondering how to begin. Steeling himself, he took a deep breath and begun.

“I found out who my mother was,” Jon said.

Tyrion’s eyes widened at this, his mouth dropping open slightly. Jon could the interest on his face and couldn’t help a smile crossing his face as he saw his friend so eager to know.

While Jon had only spoken to Tyrion briefly about his desire to know of his mother, during one of their evenings drinking together on Dragonstone, he also recognised that the identity of the mother of Eddard Stark’s bastard was likely a topic of rumour and speculation among the nobility of Westeros. Given Lord Stark’s honourable reputation it would have been a topic of scandal him siring a bastard, even more so that it usually was for noblemen.

“Who was she?” Tyrion asked excitedly.

Taking a deep breath, Jon met his friend’s eye once more.

“Lyanna Stark.”

If it was possible, Tyrion’s eyes widened even further. As Jon watched, he saw his friend’s eyes begin to dart around slightly and his brow began to furrow, as he begun to process the ramifications of what he had just said.

“And as Eddard would not have even entertained the idea of incest with his sister, it stands to reason that he is not actually your father.”

“No,” Jon replied, nodding in confirmation. “But, despite that, Lord Eddard was my father, in all the ways that matter.”

After a moment, Tyrion nodded his understanding at this.

“Taking in his nephew and raising him as his own son, regardless of how it would look to others,” Tyrion said thoughtfully. “It would seem that Eddard Stark _was_ as honourable as his reputation says.”

Jon merely nodded in response, a small smile on his face. It felt good for Jon to hear people praising his uncle’s actions, and his honourable nature.

 _I suppose this would be one good thing that would come of telling the truth_ , Jon mused. _Eddard would be remembered as the honourable man that he was, without the mark of shame that fathering a bastard brought._

Tyrion’s curiosity was getting the better of him once more, as Jon saw him lean forward in his chair again.

“So, if Lord Eddard is not your father, then who…” Tyrion’s sentence trailed off, and Jon could see a look of rising understanding crossing his face.

Jon met his friend’s questioning gaze, before nodding his head.

“Rhaegar Targaryen,” he confirmed.

“Holy shit,” Tyrion gasped, falling back into his chair, shaking his head in shock.

The Lannister was silent for a moment, and Jon could see him mulling over everything he knew about Rhaegar and Lyanna, all the pieces falling into place.

“So,” he said finally, with his shock and surprise still clear in his voice. “Was Lyanna stolen away? Or did she leave of her own accord?”

Jon sighed deeply, rubbing his hands together.

“We believe that she left of her own will, having fallen in love with Rhaegar,” Jon said, looking down at his hands. “They would then head south into Dorne, to the Tower of Joy-”

“Where you were born,” Tyrion finished, and while Jon could still hear the interest in his voice, there was also a note of sympathy there now.

“Aye,” Jon replied, looking back up to meet his friend’s eye.

Tyrion nodded his head in understanding, before chuckling softly and shaking his head slightly in shock. Jon smiled a little at seeing Tyrion processing this huge piece of news.

“Well this was a lot of information for _me_ to wrap my head around,” Tyrion said. “So, I can only imagine how big of a shock it was when you learned of it.”

“It was,” Jon admitted. “To not only learn that Lord Eddard wasn’t my father, but to learn my actual parentage. It took me a while to process it.”

“And what do you think about it?”

Jon paused for a moment before responding. He had been thinking a lot about it since learning the truth, mainly late at night before drifting off to sleep.

“Well I am no less a Stark now than I was before,” Jon said, shrugging slightly. “The only part of it that has changed is that my mother was a Stark rather than my father. And I think that I was always see myself as one, and a Northerner, regardless of who my father was.

“And yet, my Targaryen side does not bother me, not as much as it would bother the other Northern lords.”

“I take it that is why you have failed to tell them of it.”

“Aye,” Jon replied, nodding in assent. “We were presented with a writ, documenting the marriage of Rhaegar and Lyanna, and telling of their child, Jaehaerys.”

“And the lords would quickly put all the pieces together,” Tyrion finished quickly, and Jon was pleased that he was understanding everything so quickly and easily. “This document could prove to be very troublesome. Where is it?”

Jon paused for a moment before answering. One of the biggest questions that he had begun to ask himself was if he had made the right choice when he had destroyed the writ.

While it had seemed like the right course of action at the time, destroying any evidence to prevent it from being discovered and undermining their preparations for the Night King with discord and distrust, Jon had begun to wonder about the future. While he currently had no intention of revealing his parentage to the world at large, Jon knew that if he changed his mind, assuming he survived the Long Night, it would now be far harder to prove the truth, as Bran’s visions would not be enough to convince a whole country.

“I destroyed it,” Jon admitted, “so it wouldn’t fall into the wrong hands.”

“The right decision, I think,” Tyrion said, nodding slightly. “Given all of the circumstances.”

“You think so?” Jon asked curiously.

Tyrion smiled at him sympathetically.

“Yes, Jon. I understand how you might wish for people to know the truth, so that they see you as more than a legitimised bastard, but that would be the wrong decision, especially in regard to the Northerners.

“Targaryens aren’t very popular up North, are they? For reason that you well know. If the truth is revealed, it isn’t likely to change. Now they will know that not only have they been lied to for years by Eddard Stark, but that the reason they joined the Rebellion, because of Lyanna being kidnapped, was based on a lie also. It will only serve to stir up more resentment.”

Jon nodded in response. He could see and understand the logic in Tyrion’s words but he still found it distasteful to have to lie to his people about this, knowing that he would have to do so for years.

 _Assuming we all live,_ Jon thought morosely.

“I know that you will likely hate this Jon. But unfortunately, good rulers often have to make sacrifices for the benefit of their people. I think that this might have to be one of yours.”

“Weren’t you the one who told me to never forget what I am and to wear it like armour?” Jon asked.

“I was,” Tyrion replied patiently. “And, while that advice works well for bastard sons and dwarf sons of Tywin Lannister, it doesn’t work as well for a king. Especially when the knowledge could tear apart the people that he is protecting.

“And that is something that we cannot afford to deal with right now, not with the war against the dead looming.”

Jon nodded in agreement with Tyrion’s words, noting as he did so that it was unlike his friend to openly address the Night King and his army. While he no doubt had his worries and concerns about it, and would likely make his own preparations for it, he had only heard him mention it a handful of times.

Jon raised his cup to his mouth and took a long swig, before placing it upon the desk as he did so, he vaguely noted that Tyrion had hardly touched his own goblet, something that was unusual for him.

“So, what does the Queen think about this revelation?”

Jon shook his head slightly at this, recognising the teasing tone in Tyrion’s voice.

“We were both excited when we heard about Jaehaerys, thinking that we had a hidden family member out there,” Jon explained. “And when we found out that it was me, she didn’t seem to be bothered by it.

“Not even when we spoke about the marriage pact,” Jon continued, thinking back to their conversation in the Winterfell godswood, bringing a smile to his face.

“Ah yes,” Tyrion replied, with a knowing smile. “That was to be my next question. How has this affected the two of you?”

Tyrion was looking at him with a poorly hidden smirk on his face, one that Jon couldn’t help but return.

“It hasn’t Tyrion.”

“Ah of course,” he said, now not even trying to conceal his mischievous smile. “Two Targaryens marrying isn’t that uncommon after all.”

“Not just the Targaryens, Tyrion. The Starks have done it as well. And, correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t your father married to his cousin?”

“No,” Tyrion replied, holding his hands up. “You are correct, he was.”

Jon smiled at his friend for a moment longer, his mind on other things.

While he had not intentionally done so, he knew that he had put some distance between him and Dany after learning about his parentage. Although his feelings for her had not diminished in light of this revelations, he had needed some time to think about how this news would impact on him.

However, Jon was glad that it hadn’t impacted on him and Daenerys. Thinking back, Jon remembered their goodbyes before the Battles of Riverrun and Duskendale, where their feelings had shown themselves, and a smile spread across his face.

“So, anyway, enough about you,” Tyrion jested light heartedly, interrupting Jon’s thoughts and making him smile broadly. “Let me tell you what I have been doing since we last saw each other.”

As Tyrion began to tell him about his travels, Jon sat back in his chair, relishing in the chance to just listen for a moment, rather than having to explain his own complicated feelings, that he himself hadn’t quite wrapped his head around.

As he listened to his friend’s story, Jon noticed that Tyrion’s still remained untouched. Jon furrowed his brow in confusion, knowing that it was quite unlike his friend. However, Jon put it out of his mind for the time being, not wishing to interrupt Tyrion’s story.

Tyrion told him of learning about the fate of niece, and Jon felt a rush of pity for him when he heard the sorrow in his voice, which quickly turned to anger when he revealed how he had learnt of the actions of the Sand Snakes. It was a feeling that Jon mirrored, as he had been furious when he had learnt of their actions against Myrcella.

However, Jon was surprised when he began to speak of Nymeria Martell, and of his idea to use her in his plan to get revenge on the other Martells. While with the other Sand Snakes, Jon could hear the anger and hatred that he felt towards them, but with Nymeria this tone was gone from his voice, replaced by a much softer, almost sympathetic one.

Once Tyrion had finished speaking, Jon decided that he would challenge him on this.

“So, what do you think Dany will do with Nymeria?” Jon asked.

“I’m not sure,” Tyrion replied, shrugging his shoulders. “But we shall soon see once the city is taken. My guess is that she will be imprisoned in Ghaston Grey, the Martell’s prison.”

“Is that what you want?” Jon asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Why not?” Tyrion replied. “She _did_ aid in the murder of her uncle and the others, even if she did not kill any of them.”

Jon smiled slightly at this, before replying,

“She is important to you, isn’t she?”

“Well, yes,” Tyrion replied, sounding a little confused. “Without her Myrcella’s death would have gone unanswered.”

“That is not what I meant Tyrion, and you know it.”

There was a moment of silence in with Tyrion looked back him, an expression of confusion on his face. He opened his mouth to speak but no words escaped him, so he closed it again. Jon smirked slightly before continuing.

“You know, maybe we could follow your friend Varys’ advice,” Jon said, unable to stop the teasing tone from creeping into his voice, causing Tyrion to shake his head slightly. “He proposed a marriage match to help heal the feud between Houses Targaryen and Stark. Maybe there could also be another to do the same between Houses Lannister and Martell.”

While Jon was mainly joking, he could also see the usefulness of such an arrangement. The feud between the Lannisters and the Martells was one of the more well-known ones among the largest houses, and a marriage to bring it to a halt could only benefit the realm, especially after the wars that had ravaged the country for the past few years,

“Well I would have never imagined a sense of humour from you, Stark,” Tyrion laughed, shaking his head. “It would seem that finding out about your Targaryen blood has cured you of some of the Stark dourness.”

Jon laughed as he rose to his feet.

“Well I’ve taken up enough of your time, my friend,” Jon said, as he walked around the desk and clapped a hand onto Tyrion’s shoulder.

As he turned to leave the room, he noticed the still full goblet on the table.

“I must admit that I’m a little surprised at you Tyrion,” he said, pointing to it. “Normally I am drinking to keep up with you, and today you haven’t even touched your own.”

Tyrion groaned slightly, and leaned his head forward, placing his forehead in his hand.

“Don’t,” Tyrion groaned. “I can’t even stomach it.”

“Why not?” Jon laughed, a little surprised by this. He had seen Tyrion drunk before, and even seen him suffering a little the following morning, but he’d never seen him so bad he would refuse another goblet.

“Your friend Tormund and I had agreed to have a drink together when we next met,” Tyrion began to explain.

Jon laughed even louder at this, as he could see where it was going.

“Let me guess, he brought a skin of his Wildling alcohol?”

Tyrion groaned once more and nodded his head in assent.

“How much of it did you drink?” Jon asked incredulously. “It must have been quite a lot, as I’ve never seen you like this before, and you drink more than most men.”

“We drunk the whole lot.”

Jon groaned too, as he could only imagine how drunk the two of them had gotten. He has only ever managed a few goblets of the stuff at best, so he couldn’t imagine drinking an entire skin of it.

“Well, good luck,” Jon said, clapping him on the back and sliding the goblets towards him. “That will be there when you want it.”

As Jon begun to walk away he heard, Tyrion’s voice from behind him.

“I think I prefer you when you’re brooding.”

Jon turned back and saw that Tyrion was sat slumped at the desk, his forehead resting on his hand as he was clealy trying to read the correspondences on his desk.

He shook his head in amusement at the sight, before turning and leaving the tent.

*

The night before the battle, Jon sat at a small table in his tent, with thee tankards of ale sat upon it. He, Davos and Tormund had been drinking together for the last few hours, relaxing and laughing together in preparation for the exertion of the next day or so, for which Jon was glad. However, the two of them had stepped out of the tent for a piss a short while ago, with the considerable amount of ale that they had consumed beginning to catch up with them.

With his mind on the battle, Jon absent-mindedly reached out to touch at his shoulder, feeling only minimal pain at the touch. The last couple days of rest had certainly helped the pain, so much so that he no longer needed for it to be bandaged up or in a sling. He hoped that it would be enough rest for the battle the following day.

 _It was lucky for me that it wasn’t my sword arm,_ Jon thought, rolling his shoulder a little to test it.

He felt confident about the coming battle, after spending most of the last couple of days in a tent with the other military commanders, thinking up an appropriate strategy to help the take the city. However, Jon knew from experience that even the best plans could go awry so he was tempering his expectation.

Even so, Jon was finding it a welcome idea that the war for the throne would soon be over, and that by the end of the following day Cersei would be removed from the Iron Throne, with Daenerys in her place.

As he smiled at the thought of the fight coming to an end, he heard the sound of voices approaching his tent. He immediately recognised the louder of the two voices, and he shook his head slightly with a smile on his face. He reached out for the flagon of ale he had been given at the beginning of the evening, which was now nearly empty, refilling all of their tankards before setting them back upon the table beside his own.

As Jon seated himself back at the table, Tormund and Davos entered the tent. The Wildling’s eyes immediately went to the table and, upon seeing the three now full tankards on the table, he gave a loud laugh.

“I see you have prepared for our return, Snow!” he said loudly, seating himself back at the table. “Or is it Stark that you prefer now?”

“It _is_ Stark,” Jon replied, smiling at his friend’s teasing. “But Snow is fine as well.”

“Good,” Tormund replied. “You’ve been Snow for as long as I’ve know you, so that’s what it is going to stay.”

Jon laughed as he raised his tankard, with Tormund and Davos following suit. The three of them drank deeply, before placing their tankards back on the table.

They remained in silence for a moment, before Davos turned to Jon.

“So, do you think that we are ready for the battle tomorrow?”

Jon had been anticipating this question for most of the evening, as he knew that their joviality could only last for so long the night before such an important battle in the war they had been waging.

“As ready as we can be, I think,” Jon replied, thinking hard. “We are not going to have a better chance. We’ve got the city surrounded, on land and at sea. We’ve got the armies from three different Kingdoms, as well as those from Essos, combined with the fleet of the Greyjoys.

“Our biggest problem will be getting past the gates and wall surrounding the capital.”

“Those dragons should help us there,” Tormund laughed, drinking deeply from his tankard.

“We don’t want to use the dragons against the city if we can help it,” Jon replied, shaking his head. “Not only do we not want any fires spreading throughout the city, endangering the people living there, but it would not create a good first image for the new queen to burn down half of the city that she will soon be ruling from.”

Jon could see Davos nodding his head in agreement, with even Tormund shrugging a little.

They _had_ considered using the dragons from the first, in order to speed up the taking of the city and hopefully to demoralise the Lannister forces in the city. But they had decided that the risk was too great, not only for the reasons that Jon had already mentioned but also for the fact that they knew that there would be a great deal of siege weaponry that would be directed towards the dragons, putting them in greater danger. So, they had decided that Daenerys and the dragons would aid Yara and Victarion in destroying the remaining Greyjoy ships that had been in the harbour of the city, behind the raised chain.

The dragons would first destroy the chain and allow Yara and Victarion’s ships to engage the other Greyjoy fleet, before moving to then help destroy the remaining ships. This would help to keep them as far from the siege weapons, as the Greyjoy longships weren’t really known for keeping them on board, being mainly used for transporting their troops, while at the same time being able to aid in the battle.

“So, the war could soon be over,” Davos said suddenly, interrupting Jon’s thoughts. “Cersei will be deposed, and Daenerys will retake the Iron Throne for House Targaryen.”

“ _This_ war will be over, yes,” Jon replied distantly.

The three of them fell into silence once more, as it often did when the war against the army of dead was brought up. Jon knew that it was because that especially he and Tormund had some of the greatest knowledge about the threat that they faced, with both of them already fighting against the dead at Hardhome.

However, Jon knew that if they took the capital, that they could have another potential weapon to use in their fight.

“But, if all goes well tomorrow,” Jon said. “We will have found Tobho Mott and will have hopefully convinced him to forge the Valyrian weapons for us.”

“And if you do,” Tormund said, pointing at Jon, “I want one of those blades. It’s about time we can manage to kill those fucking Walkers.”

Jon smiled and nodded his head in agreement. He guessed that the time needed to create a Valyrian blade would be greater than for a standard one, so the amount of these weapons he would be able to produce would be limited. Therefore, he knew that it would make sense for their best fighters to have these limited number of blades, and Tormund was definitely among this number.

“Well,” Tormund said, rising back to his feet, his tankard still in hand. “I think we should be leaving Davos, as I imagine that Snow will be soon having company… and he won’t want us here.”

Jon shook his head and smiled, knowing immediately that Tormund was referring to Daenerys. While Tormund was correct, as the two of them had agreed to spend a bit of time together the night before the battle, to discuss the final preparations, Jon was unsure of how he knew about it.

Jon too rose to his feet, before raising his tankard.

“Before you both leave,” Jon began, looking between his friends’ faces. “I want to wish you well for the battle, in case I don’t get the chance tomorrow.

“I hope to see you both in the other side.”

Davos and Tormund both raise their tankards as well, nodding in return. The three of them drink deeply, before placing their tankards back on the table.

Jon stepped forward and shook Davos’ hand, clapping him on the shoulder with his free hand.

“Good luck to you too, King Jon,” Davos said, with a small smirk. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t die tomorrow. As that would be the second King that I served to die in battle.”

“I’ll do my best,” Jon laughed, as Davos stepped back.

Jon then turned to Tormund and held out his hand. Tormund reached forward and the two of them grasped forearms.

“Well,” Tormund said, smirking slightly. “I’m going to be fighting by your side tomorrow, so if one of those Lannister fucks _do_ manage to get the better of you, I’ll be sure to kill you myself.”

Smiling at Tormund’s words, Jon felt a rush of gratitude for his friend, and the loyalty that he was showing him.

“Then I’ll be sure to not let them get the best of me,” Jon replied, as he and Tormund released their grip on each other.

“Good,” Tormund replied, before slapping Jon on the back and walking out of the tent, with Davos close behind.

Still smiling, Jon turned back to the table and begun to clear it of the half empty jug, and the tankards.

He hoped that his friends would make it through the battle unscathed. He knew that out of the two, Tormund would likely be in the most danger as, while he was the better fighter of the two, he would likely put himself in the thick of battle whereas Davos would likely be hanging back slightly. This was not something that Jon saw as a problem as he would rather his friend recognise his limitations rather than be reckless and endanger himself.

After a short time, Jon was aware that someone else had entered the tent.

Turning towards the entrance, he saw Daenerys stood there. Despite having seen her every day for the last few weeks, and her already being the most beautiful woman that he had ever met, the sight of her just then as she stood in the entrance of his tent, took Jon’s breath away.

She was wearing a flowing black dress, upon which her silver dragon head necklace stood out sharply and her hair, normally quite tightly braided behind her head, hung quite loose around her face. Her violet eyes and her pale skin almost seemed to shine when contrasted with her dark clothing, and the dim light behind her. And when she saw the look on his face, she gave him a wide smile that only served to make her look even more stunning.

“Good evening, Jon,” she said, still smirking a little at his expression.

Mentally shaking himself back to his senses, Jon returned her smile.

“Good evening, Dany,” he replied, motioning for her to enter the tent and to have a seat.

Nodding her head in thanks, Dany walked over to the table and seated herself at it, with Jon following suit. He saw her eyes find the tankards, and another smile crept across her face.

“It would seem that you had company already this evening,” she said teasingly, as she met his eye.

“Tormund and Davos,” Jon replied, smiling in return. “We decided to share a drink together before the battle.”

She didn’t reply to him immediately, simply looking at the wall of the tent for a moment, before turning to him, with a look of concern and interest on her face.

“Do you think we can take the city?” she asked bluntly.

Jon held her gaze for a moment, and he could see both nervousness and excitement in her face. He could only imagine how it must be for her, to be so close to the thing that she had been told about for her whole life, and something that she had been working towards for years.

“Aye,” he replied, nodding. “I think we have a very good chance. Our plan is as good as we can make it. Our men are ready to go. And we have Cersei on the back foot at the moment.

“However, we cannot afford to let ourselves get carried away and too overconfident,” Jon continued, as much of a warning to himself as to Dany. “Once we attack the city, anything could happen.”

Dany nodded her head in understanding of his words. Jon could see that she knew, just as much as he did, that plans often did not work as they should. For every plan that worked, like theirs at Duskendale, there was often one that did not, with the betrayal of Olymer Tyrell threatening their blockade of the capital being the first that came to mind.

The look of nervous excitement returned to her face once more, and Jon smiled a little at the sight.

“You must be excited, to be so close,” Jon said, seeing her turn to meet his eyes once more. “To finally be able to get the thing that you have wanted for years.”

Dany smiled slightly at his words.

“It feels strange,” she admitted. “Almost as if it isn’t real. It has been such long journey to get here.”

“But just think,” Jon replied, reaching out and placing one of his hands over the top of hers. “In a few days’ time you could be sat on the Iron Throne.”

Dany smiled widely at this, before turning her hand in his so that she could grip it back.

“I need to thank you Jon,” she said. “I don’t know if I would have made it this far without you. I would have likely died on Dragonstone without your aid.”

“Thank me when you are on the Throne, Dany,” Jon replied softly.

She smiled at him for a moment longer, before it faded from her face, to be replaced by a preoccupied look. Dany pulled her hand out from under Jon’s and folded them in her lap. Jon furrowed his brow slightly at this, slightly confused by this change in her demeanour.

“Now that we are so close to the end, I suppose we should discuss the last part of our alliance,” she said quietly.

“The marriage pact,” Jon replied, instantly knowing what she meant.

She nodded in response, and the two of them sat in silence for a moment, before she spoke again.

“I have been wondering,” she said, before turning to meet his eye. “You haven’t told the lords of the North and the Vale about the marriage pact. Why not?”

“So, we were not forced to go through with it,” Jon replied immediately, seeing a look of shock cross her face at his confession. “I did not wish to force you to marry again, especially after what you had told me of Drogo and Hizdahr. This way, if one of us had changed their mind, we would have been able to do so without appearing to renege on our promises.”

Jon saw her look at him in surprised for a moment, before a smile crossed her face once more.

“Thank you, Jon,” she said softly, and he could hear the gratitude in her voice.

Jon held her gaze for a moment, smiling back at her, before her expression changed once more, this time into one of curiosity.

“And what do you want, Jon?” she asked. “I know that learning of your parentage must have changed things but-”

“Dany,” Jon interrupted, reaching out and gripping her hand again. “I owe you an apology. I know that after learning about Rhaegar and Lyanna, I have been more distant with you. It was a lot for me to understand and process, and I know that I was occupied with it for a long time.”

As he said this, he looked down at the floor and released her hand, feeling ashamed of this. After a moment, however, he looked back up and met her violet eyes, looking at him with concern.

“But I want you to know that what I learned changed _nothing_ about how I feel.”

At this, Jon saw that Dany’s eyes widened, with a smile spreading across her face.

“It didn’t?” She said, sounding surprised.

“No,” Jon replied, emphatically.

He paused for a moment, with days and weeks of thoughts about the revelations tumbling through his head. Taking a deep breath, Jon met her eyes again and smiled widely.

“I am a Targaryen,” he declared. “I can’t admit it to my people, but I _am_ a Targaryen. So, if we decide to marry, then it wouldn’t be the strangest marriage in _our_ family.”

Jon saw Dany’s smile widen even further, if it were possible, and he couldn’t help from following suit.

“And, as Sansa reminded me,” he continued, shrugging slightly. “It isn’t that strange in the Stark family either. Two sisters, Sansa and Serena Stark, both married their father’s brothers. So, even if I rejected my Targaryen side, anything between us wouldn’t be that out of the normal.”

There was a moment of silence after his words, in which Jon simply looked back at Dany, taking in every aspect of her. He could see, by the way that she was looking back at him, the affection that she held for him and he felt even more ashamed that he had allowed the revelation of his parentage come between them.

And in that moment, he knew how he felt.

Jon leaned forward once more, his gaze never leaving hers.

“Dany, I love you.”

There was a moment of stunned silence after this, with Dany’s eyes widening even further, her mouth falling open slightly. It seemed to last forever, with the two of them simply staring at each other, as if time had stopped.

And then it started again.

Dany pushed herself from her chair and into Jon’s arms, their lips crashing together. As their mouths opened, their tongues meeting each other after far too long apart, Jon pulled her onto his lap, one hand at her back and the other at back of her head.

They stayed that way for a moment, flat against each other, their lips connected, before Dany pulled away from him. He was initially confused by this, but then she leaned in, pressing their foreheads together.

“I love _you_ ,” Dany whispered, as she leaned even further forwards, so that their noses were brushing against each other.

Hearing the words awakened something within him. All of the desire and the longing that he had felt for her came rushing to the surface. Jon pressed his lips back against hers, hearing Dany moan slightly in delight at him doing so, before lifting her into his arms, supporting her under her thighs.

Their mouths still connected, Jon steered them towards the bed, feeling one of Dany’s arms around his neck, while the other was in his hair, pulling it from its bindings. When he reached the bed, Jon turned and sat down, with Dany settling herself back in his lap once more.

The two of them stayed that way for a while, gripping each other tightly as they remained joined at the mouth. However, Dany soon separated them again, this time standing back up.

Breathing heavily Jon watched as she begun to undo the straps and fastenings of her dress. Hardly daring to believe his luck, and thankful that he had decided to discard his armour earlier on in the evening, Jon pulled his woollen shirt over his head, before reaching down to pull of his boots.

However, he was distracted by a sharp intake of breath from Dany. He looked up to see her looking at his chest, with a look of abject horror on her face. Following her eyes, Jon too looked down at his chest, at the vivid scars that marred it.

Seeing movement, Jon looked back up at Dany and saw her moving back towards him. She seated herself back on his lap, staring at the scars on his chest, her fingertips reaching out gingerly as thought she was going to touch them, although she stopped short.

“This is where they killed you,” she said softly, her fingertips finally touching at the jagged scar over his heart.

“Yes,” Jon replied, feeling his breath catch in his chest as he remembered that night in Castle Black. The feeling of betrayal, of the knives being slammed into his chest, and of the darkness that followed.

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking up at him, and Jon could see that there were tears in her eyes.

Jon reached up with his hands and brushed them away with his thumbs, before pulling her into a kiss. As they parted again, she looked at him with a serious look.

“I’ve never really asked before,” she said hesitantly, clearly unsure of how she should word her question. “But what was it like? The afterlife?”

Jon almost winced at her question, something that Dany had clearly noticed as her expression changed to one of worry. However, Jon caressed her back in a reassuring way, to show that he didn’t really mind the question.

“It was…empty,” he replied, after a moment. “There was _nothing._ Only darkness.”

His words clearly affected Dany, as she began to caress his scars with her fingertips, as if trying to soothe the pain he had felt when the knives had gone in. She then leaned forwards and pressed her lips to the particularly deep scar on his chest and held them there for a moment, before straightening back up and pressing them to his own lips.

“I’m sorry that you had to see that,” Dany said, as she pulled away from him after a moment.

“Me too,” Jon admitted. “But it made me appreciate my life all the more, and everything that it is important in it.”

Jon then raised a hand to cup at her cheek and tilted her head down toward him slightly.

“And _everyone_ that is important in it.”

His words seemed to galvanise Dany, as she immediately leaned forward so that their lips could meet once more, her hips moving forward to grind against his crotch. Jon reached up and began to untie the fastenings of her dress. However, he quickly began to have trouble doing so, eliciting a giggle from Dany.

She stood back up off his lap and begun to take her dress off, with Jon immediately moving to remove his boots and breeches. Once he had done so, he looked up to see Dany standing naked in front of him, causing his breath to catch in his chest.

As Jon simply stared back at her, Dany moved towards him. But this time, as their lips reconnected, she pushed them both back onto the bunk, laying atop him. Jon felt one of her hands move down his chest and grasp hold of his manhood. Jon groaned softly as he felt her grip tighten as Dany began to stroke his cock, before he reached down with one hand and grasping hold of her behind, pulling her hips closer against his crotch.

His other hand was running through her mane of silver hair, maintaining their kiss, while her free hand was against his chest, her forefinger caressing the scars there. Feeling Dany against him like this made Jon feel foolish for having denied his feelings for her for so long, and for putting distance between them after the revelations of his identity.

He moved his hand from her backside to her cunt, feeling that she was already beginning to get wet. As his fingers began to rub in circles against her, Jon felt her moan into his mouth and increase the pace with which she was massaging his cock. Jon in turn began to increase his own speed, while simultaneously beginning to ease his fingertips into her slick folds, which cause Dany to move her hips closer to him, to ease his fingers deeper inside her.

Feeling a sudden surge of desire, Jon flipped the two of them over, provoking a gasp of surprise from Dany as she soon found herself on her back. He grinned at her mischievously before moving himself down the bed. He eased her legs apart, placing them on his shoulders and exposing her cunt to him. Kissing down the inside of her legs, Jon heard her gasping slightly as her hand found its way into his hair, guiding his head towards her cunt.

With a small smirk, Jon pressed his mouth against it, easing his tongue between her folds. As he did so, he felt her hips rise up slightly and her thighs press against either side of his head.

“Jon,” she gasped, gripping his hair tighter, causing him to increase the pace of his tongue slightly.

After continuing to lick and suck at her cunt for a few minutes, Jon heard her gasp his name again, this time pulling under his arms slightly. He pulled his head from between her legs and followed her directions, pausing for a moment to kiss and caress her breasts. He felt her body tense up at his touch, her back arcing up off the bed to meet him, as his hands then drifted around to behind her. With one at her back, and the other on her rear, Jon pulled her into his body, feeling the wetness of her cunt against him as he begun to kiss at her neck.

He felt Dany begin to move her hips again, rubbing her cunt against his cock, causing him to groan in arousal and frustration against her neck. While he continued to kiss her neck for a few moments more, this frustration soon got the better of him.

He raised himself up on the bed, looking down at Dany below him, her silver hair splayed over the bed around her, her skin flushed pink. His arousal peaked even further, so he reached down and guided his cock towards her cunt, feeling her open her legs even further.

As his cock entered her, he heard Dany gasp his name once more, so Jon looked back up at her and met her eyes as he fully entered her, seeing her throw her head back in pleasure. Jon groaned as he felt the warm grip of her womanhood around him as he slowly pushed himself forward, deeper into her. Jon felt Dany’s hands move once more, one of them gripping his shoulders and the other at the small of his back, which he felt more pressure on, guiding his crotch further down.

Obeying her pressure, Jon begun to thrust into her, feeling her fingers digging into the flesh of his back and hearing her gasps and moans in his ear. Feeling her body arcing up towards him again, Jon begun to increase his pace, relishing the feeling of her cunt gripping his cock.

“Dany,” he groaned, before capturing her lips with his own, feeling her tongue immediately make its way into his mouth.   

He continued his pace, feeling her body rising up in time with his every thrust, to make sure that he was as deep inside her as he could be.

As Dany’s breathing began to speed up and become more ragged, Jon raised himself up slightly once more, breaking their kiss. As he looked down at Dany, he could see a look of pure longing and desire on her face that spurred him on even further.

He raised one of Dany’s legs over his shoulder once more, before thrusting himself inside her, as deep as he could, casing Dany to cry out in pleasure. As he begun to renew his frantic pace, he saw that one of her hands was now gripping at the sheets of the bed, her knuckles white.

She looked up at him and met his eyes, a pleasured smile on her face. However, their eye contact was broken when Dany threw her head back in pleasure once more. Knowing that neither of them would last much longer, Jon leaned forward, grasping her face in his hands. Dany kissed the palm of one of his hands, before looking him in the eye once more.

Before long the two of them began to gasp and pant in almost unison and, with a final deep thrust, Jon spilled his seed inside of her, feeling Dany’s grip on him increase as her body convulsed slightly as she too reached her orgasm.

Panting heavily, Jon almost collapsed forward onto her, before rolling over to lay next to her on the bed. Turning onto his side, he saw that Dany was looking at him, a broad smile on her face, her hair now hanging over her eyes, whose violet hue seemed to shine even brighter.

 _Gods she is beautiful,_ Jon thought, once more hardly daring to believe his luck.

“If this is what we have been missing out on,” Dany said, as she shifted herself on the bed to lay across his chest. “Then I am not impressed that it took you so long to make your mind up.”

Chuckling lightly at her jest, Jon pressed his lips to the top of her head, breathing in the smell of her hair.

The two of them then drifted off to sleep, with Jon enjoying the feel of Dany’s body pressed close against him and hoping that this would be how he would fall asleep for the foreseeable future.

*

Jon woke with the dawn, immediately awake with the recognition of the pressing battle. Looking to his side, he sees that Dany had clearly rolled off of him in the night, although she was still facing towards him, her silver hair trailing over her face.

Jon brushed it out of her eyes and pressed a kiss to her forehead, before rising from the bed. As he dressed, the plan for the coming battle ran on a loop in his head, with a familiar feeling of anticipation and nervousness boiling in his gut.

 _I must speak to Randyll Tarly before the battle starts_ , Jon thought, as he seated himself on the edge of the bed to pull his boots on.

Standing up once more, Jon hears Dany’s voice from behind him, husky from sleep.

“Jon.”

He turned back to bed to see that she had propped herself up on her elbow, the sheets covering her modesty. Smiling, Jon leaned down to kiss her.

“Good morning.”

She murmured a response against his lips, that his ears didn’t catch. Jon could tell by the troubled look on her face that she was concerned for both of their welfare in the coming battle. Jon cupped her cheek in his hand, tilted her face up towards him.

“I’ll be careful,” he promised, brushing her cheek with his thumb.

She nodded in response, turning her head in his hand to kiss his palm again.

While Jon wanted nothing more than to stay in the tent with her all morning, he knew that he would be needed in order to help with the preparations.

“I must meet Lord Tarly,” Jon muttered, with even him noticing the regret and disappointment in his voice.

Dany nodded in understanding.

“I know,” she replied, her voice heavy. “Go. I won’t be far behind you.”

Jon stood up and turned to leave the tent. However, he had only made it to the entrance to the tent, before he was compelled to turn back. Dany had risen from the bed and left the sheet behind.

As he watched her gather up her dress and boots, he couldn’t suppress a smile at the sight, before it was quickly extinguished as he turned and left the safety of the tent, for the promise of violence.


	40. Sansa IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK everyone! Here is the actual chapter 40!  
> I am so sorry for the long wait, but unfortunately I'd had a bit of shitty time of late. But luckily, since the last Windows update, my computer seems to have sorted itself out and hasn't been crashing daily like it had been.  
> Also, my contract at my job has run out and they had decided to not renew it so, while I am currently out of work, it means there is more time for fic writing. So expect updates to be more frequent for the time being, until I let you know I've got a job.  
> Hope you all enjoy the chapter, and that it is somewhat worth the wait for it.  
> Next up will be Tyrion

Sansa

 

It had been several weeks since Jon and Daenerys’ departure from Riverrun, and a sense of normality had finally become to settle in the keep, something that Sansa was extremely grateful for.

The castle had been a hive of activity in the days since the army’s departure, with those who had remained behind being busy with everything from making sure that the remaining Lannister men, who had surrendered during the battle, were imprisoned and also making sure that every hint of the keep’s occupation was wiped away, with the copious amount of Lannister banners being burned in the castle courtyard, to the delight of the Tully men.

At first, Sansa had been glad for the long list of tasks that was required, as it would give her something to do, to prevent her from being preoccupied with thinking about what was happening further south, wondering and worrying about the fate of Jon and Daenerys. And then, whenever she had an hour or so to spare, she would have often spent it sat in the Riverrun godswood or in the Sept. It was in these places that she felt closest to her parents, despite them being gone.

While the godswood here was quite different from its counterpart in Winterfell, with its heart tree being a more slender weirwood than what she was used to, she still enjoyed sitting out there, feeling no chill in the air despite the coming of winter, having grown to be accustomed to harsher winters of the North. She enjoyed the peace of the place, and would often think of her father, sitting under the large weirwood back in Winterfell, polishing Ice next to the large pond.

The Sept on the other had was a large sandstone building, which had been set among the gardens of Minisa Tully, Sansa’s grandmother. It was a seven-sided building, with large murals of the Seven painted on the walls. Out of all the Stark children, Sana knew that she was the one who had adopted her mother’s faith the most. While Robb had followed the Seven, Sansa knows that in his heart he mainly kept to the Old Gods, and likely only paid lip service to the Seven to appease their mother. She enjoyed her time here as equally as in the godswood, spending much of it staring at the beautiful paintings on the walls, and thinking of how her mother must have prayed in here when she was a young girl.

They were a bittersweet way to spend her time, as while it was nice to think of them, it simply made her acutely aware of the hole their loss had left behind.

When she wasn’t working, in the Sept or in the godswood, Sansa would also spend time talking with Missandei, sat at Grey Worm’s bedside. The Unsullied warrior’s fever had taken a turn for the worse a few days after their departure, with him looking pale and sweating profusely. Missandei scarcely left his side during this time and Sansa, feeling sorry for the young woman, having seen how deeply she cared for him, kept her company.

Over the hours that the two of them had then spent together, they opened up to each other, telling each other their experiences, during which Sansa had grown to admire the woman. Hearing of how Missandei had been taken into slavery at a young age, and taken away from her home of Naath, had been horrible to hear, but Sansa admired the young woman’s strength at what she’d had to live through.

Despite having heard titbits about Daenerys’ adventures in Essos from the woman herself, it was interesting to hear them from Missandei. Not only did she reveal the parts that Sansa hadn’t heard, but she could also hear what it was like seeing Daenerys’ actions from another person’s perspective. Sansa could hear the great amount of respect and loyalty that Missandei had for her Queen. But more than that, she could tell that Missandei regarded Daenerys as a close friend.

After a difficult few days, Grey Worm’s fever abated, much to Missandei and the maester’s delight, and the following day he awoke. He was still quite pale and very weak, but the maester was sure that he would make a complete recovery. Upon hearing the news, Sansa had gripped the other woman’s hand tightly in congratulations, and the two of them had shared a wide smile.

Wishing to give the two of them some privacy now that Grey Worm had awakened, Sansa had taken more to her work, something that had been aided by a growing list of tasks to do, and Edmure’s complete absence from such matters.

Despite now being free, and able to live in his home once more instead of being incarcerated in its dungeons, Edmure remained in his chambers, venturing out only very rarely. Sansa knew from her own experience, effectively becoming a hostage in her own home while she had been kept as Ramsay Bolton’s wife, the hardship and pain that was caused by being a captive in a place that you knew so well.

While Sansa could understand and sympathise with his desire to be on his own, she also knew that Edmure was heavily needed in the activities around Riverrun, as the head of House Tully. However, she was willing to aid in helping to organise the repairs and preparations, giving him the time that he needed after his years of captivity.

One evening, after a long day of helping to organise the Lannister captive, making sure that they were both securely imprisoned but also treated well, Sansa made her way to the chamber where Missandei and Grey Worm had been given. As she walked, her tiredness crushed down on her with every step. It been a long few days, with scarcely a moment for her to sit down and collect her thoughts.

Reaching the door, Sansa raised her hand and knocked on the door. After a moment’s pause, she heard Missandei’s voice calling out in response.

“Come in.”

Sansa opened the door and entered the room, which had several candles burning to push back the rapidly advancing darkness. She saw that Grey Worm was sat up in his bed, looking much healthier than he had a few days prior, with Missandei sat alongside him. The woman smiled at seeing Sansa in the doorway and indicated towards a chair to her left.

 “Good evening, Lady Sansa,” Missandei said, still smiling widely. “Please join us.”

“Thank you,” Sansa replied, retuning her smile, and taking a seat. “How are you feeling today, Grey Worm?”

The Unsullied shifted in bed slightly at this, sitting up a little higher.

“Good,” he replied. “Thank you.”

Sansa smiled in response. Over the past few days, she had grown accustomed to Grey Worm’s simplistic way of answering questions. Many people may consider it to be rude or, depending on the questions, defensive but Sansa knew that it was merely the fact of the Common Tongue being his second language.

The three of them spoke for a while, about mainly trivial matters but Sansa liked it, as it helped her to forget about the busy day that she’d had and how tired she was.

However, she couldn’t keep it at bay for long and, during a lull in the conversation, she had to fight back a yawn.

“You look exhausted, Sansa,” Missandei said, with concern in her voice.

“It has been a busy few days,” Sansa admitted, massaging her tired eyes as she fought back another yawn.

“You seem to be organising everything,” Missandei said.

“Well Edmure is….” Sansa began, before stopping to think of the right way of putting it. “Is not in the right frame of mind right now.”

There was a brief pause after these words, and Missandei nodded her head briefly in understanding.

“He has been through a lot, these last few years,” Sansa continued. “It is going to take him a while to get back to normal, so I willing to help take some of the work off his shoulders for the time being.

“But there is only so much I can do,” she said, meeting Missandei’s eye. “I’m not the head of House Tully, and the people are starting to notice Edmure’s absence.”

Just that day alone, she had overheard several different rumours flying around about the reasons for Edmure’s absence. With everything from him being sick and weak from his lengthy time imprisoned, to a horrible facial disfigurement being given as explanations. It had taken a lot of restraint for Sansa to not throw their theories back in their face, as she knew that it would only take them _seeing_ Edmure for it to stop.

“How is Edmure doing?” Missandei asked. “Does it look like he will be joining you soon?”

Sansa fell silent for a moment, deep in thought. It had been several days since she had last visited her uncle, as she had been retreating to her own chambers early lately, completely exhausted. It was something that she had become quite guilty about, as she knew that Edmure had clearly been having trouble to re adjust since his release from the dungeons.

The last time she had gone to see him, she had sat by his bedside trying to speak to him. However, he would only respond with single, monotone sentences or, more often, completely silence. He would simply sit there and stare out of the window, down over Riverrun, now with Tully sigils flying all over.

She had studied his face, now shaven clean of the tangled, messy beard that had covered it when he had been rescued. He was incredibly gaunt and frail looking from his time in captivity, with his cheeks hollowed into his face, with large dark shadows under his eyes. His face had been covered by an expression of deep thought and occasionally a flicker of something that looked like guilt. This had intrigued Sansa, but she knew that it wasn’t the right time for her to ask him.

“I don’t think so,” Sansa replied, meeting Missandei’s eye. “He seems… distant. I don’t know if he will want to, or be able to, take up command of his people yet.

“But I’m going to help him,” she continued, making up her mind. “As much as I can.”

Sansa saw Missandei smile widely in response, which Sansa returned. Coming to a snap decision, Sansa got to her feet.

“My apologies. I know I have only just arrived, but it has been a few days since I last saw my uncle, and I would like to see how he is before I retire for the night.”

“Of course, Sansa,” Missandei replied, as she too rose to her feet and took Sansa’s hands her own. “I hope you are able to help Edmure.”

“Thank you,” Sans replied, bowing her head slightly, before looking between the two of them. “Good night to you both.”

As she saw Grey Worm nod to her in response, even giving her a thin smile, and heard Missandei return the words, Sansa smiled to them both and left the room, before making her way towards Edmure’s chambers.

Edmure was her uncle, one of the few family members that she had left remaining to her, and she was determined to do something to help him and wished to begin as soon as possible.

Before long Sansa was approaching his chambers, where a Tully guardsman was patrolling the corridor. As she approached the man, she recognised his grizzled features and smiled widely.

“Good evening Edric,” she said, bowing her head. “I trust you are well.”

“Good evening, Lady Sansa,” he said, bowing his head low in respect. “I have no complaints.”

Sansa had spoken to Edric a few times in the past few weeks, as he would often have the night shift, patrolling throughout the chambers of the keep. She had grown to enjoy their talks, as he would often speak of his two young daughters and the look of happiness on his face would always cheer Sansa up.

“How are Lysa and Gwyn?” Sansa asked politely, before smiling broadly at the sight of the man’s grin.

“They are very well, thank you, my lady,” Edric replied, before speaking with great pride at his youngest’s skill playing the harp, and Lysa’s growing love for horse riding.

After speaking for a few moments, silence fell between the two of them, even though the man’s prideful smile didn’t fade from his face.

“And what of my uncle?” Sansa asked, looking past Edric to the closed door halfway down the corridor. “Has he ventured form his rooms?”

Edric’s smiled faded immediately, as thought it had never been there in the first place.

“He has not, my lady. Not for several days.”

That was of some concern to Sansa. While he had definitely been withdrawn since his release, he _had_ ventured out of his chambers occasionally, even if it was only for a few hours.

“Has he been eating?” Sansa then asked with concern, meeting the man’s eyes.

Edric shook his head, a frown of concern creasing his mouth.

“I’m afraid not, Lady Sansa. More often than not his plate remains untouched.”

Sansa was incredibly concerned now, and her guilt over not checking on him for the last few days increasing even further.

“I need to see him, Edric,” she said urgently.

“Of course, my lady,” the guard replied, turning and leading her towards the door.

After several loud, ringing knocks on the wooden door, Edric opened it for her and Sansa entered Edmure’s chambers. She was immediately engulfed by the darkness in the room. Drapes were closed across the windows, and only a solitary candle burned low in the farthest corner of the room, dangerously close to burning out.

“Edmure?” she said cautiously, looking around the darkened room for him.

She could hardly see a foot in front of her, and no sound reached her ears in response. She began to make her way over to the candle, moving slowly so as to not trip over anything on the floor.

“Edmure?” she said again, a little louder this time. “Are you here?”

Again, silence was the only reply.

Feeling very uneasy about the lack of reply, Sansa continued across the room, nearly tripping on something that she saw, after squinting through the gloom, was a discarded boot.

As she reached the candle, Sansa became aware that her eyes were growing accustomed to the darkness, enabling her to navigate the room a little easier. However, she was not willing to simply rely on this, wishing for there to be more candlelight for her to use.

Sansa picked up the candlestick and made her away around the perimeter of the room, lighting the various candle that lined them. Some of them were already half burned out, but Sansa wasn’t too bothered by this, as any amount of light would help in this case.

As she continued to light them, with the warm orange glow beginning to permeate the inky darkness of the chambers, she cast her eyes around the room, looking for any sign of her uncle. However, there was no immediate sign of Edmure, with the ransacked state of the room becoming clearer to Sansa.

There were clothes strewn all over the floor, so much so that she felt it was rather lucky that she hadn’t tripped more often while walking across the room. There were also several plates of food set down on various tables and chairs, all of which were cold and untouched. 

As the amber glow began to touch every corner of the room, Sansa stopped and began to look around once more.

“Edmure?” She called out again. “It’s Sansa. Are you here? Are you well?”

This time there was a sound of response, a sort of strangled grunt.

Sansa turned her head towards the noise, in between a large dresser and the wall in a corner of the room. She hurried over to investigate and quickly found Edmure, huddled up in the gap, sitting with his knees pressed against his chest, his arms hugging them to him tightly. She met his eyes and saw that they were as wide as saucers, starting back at her.

And then she was alarmed to see the great dark shadows under his eyes, which had grown considerably since she had last seen him.

“Uncle Edmure?” Sansa said softly, reaching out to touch at his arm.

She was slightly shocked when he flinched away slightly from her touch, his eyes widening ever further. However, she persisted and, after a moment, she was able to grasp hold of his hand.

“Come on,” she said softly, gently tugging at his arm, urging him to stand.

Once he did so Sansa directed him to the nearest chair, that was covered by neither clothes nor unwanted food. Once there, Edmure slumped into it and immediately rested his head in his hands, his elbows propped upon his knees.

Sansa hurried back towards the door and into the corridor. She quickly saw the form of Edric continuing on his patrol.

“Edric!” she called out, seeing the man turn urgently towards the sound of her voice. “Fetch the maester for my uncle, with something to help him sleep.

The guard nodded his head in understanding and hurried away without another moment’s pause.

Sansa headed back into the room, closing the door softly behind her. She half expected to find the chair empty, and Edmure back in the corner. However, she was both pleased and a little concerned to see that he was where she had left him, in exactly the same position.

She slowly approached him, feeling a swelling of pity for her uncle as she looked at his crumpled form.

Sansa stopped in front of him and waited for a moment, to see if her uncle would decide to speak on his own. She was a little shocked by how he was acting, as it was far removed from how she had recently seen him.

Sansa had only met him a few times while in her childhood, and only have vague recollections of such encounters, but he was incredibly far removed from the enthusiastic man that he had been then, always with a broad smile upon his face.

Sansa was about to speak up, to break the silence, when Edmure did it first.

“I’m sorry, Sansa,” he whispered into his hands, so quietly that she could barely understand him.

“What?” Sansa replied softly, both confused and curious by this.

Edmure raised his head from his hands and met her eyes, and Sansa was even more surprised to see the look of pure guilt in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Sansa,” he said again, a lot louder this time.

“What for?”

“The Red Wedding,” he said, his voice breaking slightly as he said this.

Sansa was stunned by this, completely unable to think of anything to say to allay his guilt.

“What are you talking about?” she blurted out, unable to stop herself.

“It is _my_ fault they died, Sansa. Robb, your mother, everyone. I allowed myself to be forced into marrying Roslin. If I had any backbone I would have refused, like the Blackfish did with his match. We wouldn’t have been at the Twins, the Freys wouldn’t have been able to betray us like that and they would all still be alive.”

Sansa reached out her hands and placed them on either side of his face, making sure to meet his eyes.

“Listen,” she said soothingly. “I do not blame you for that. _At all_.”

Edmure shook his head slightly at her words, and she could feel him trying to lower his head again. She tightened her grip slightly, not enough to hurt him but firm enough to prevent him for averting his eyes.

“I blame the Freys, the Boltons and the Lannisters. You were just doing what you thought was best for the family. Trying to help us keep the Freys on side. You couldn't have known that they would betray us as they did.

“It is _not_ your fault.”

Sansa could see a hint of surprise cross his face at her soothing words. She thought that maybe she had calmed him down slightly and had gotten through to him.

But shortly after his face sagged once more.

“‘The best for the family’” he quoted, his voice sounding sad once more. “And yet I still betrayed them.”

“Edmure,” Sansa began, patiently. “I told you-”

“I don’t mean at the Wedding,” Edmure interrupted sharply, before closing his eyes with a look of regret.

“I mean when I told the Tully men to stand down during the siege, allowing the Kingslayer and his army to take Riverrun, with the Blackfish dying in the taking of the keep.”

Sansa knew that Edmure had aided Jaime Lannister in the taking of Riverrun, and she had wondered for his reasons for doing so.

“Why?” she asked, before she could stop herself, before flinching at her foolishness.

Edmure met her eyes once more and she could see a far off look on his face.

“While I was a captive of the Freys at the Twins, they kept me in my cell in complete darkness, with only enough food and water to survive. The only times when I got more light in the cell was when the guards got drunk enough to come in and beat me.”

She stood there for a moment, completely stunned into silence. Sansa knew that she should say something to him, to comfort her uncle though these painful memories, but nothing suitable came to mind.

“So, then the Kingslayer came to me, initially friendly and offering shelter for me and my family. But he quickly changed, claiming that he will kill everyone in the keep, including launching my son at Riverrun with a catapult.”

Sansa gasped involuntarily in surprise, completed horrified at Jaime Lannister’s threat. She moved forward slightly and placed a comforting hand on Edmure’s shoulder.

“So, in order to save the life of a son that I had never met, I got them to lower the gate, my uncle paid the price. I betrayed my uncle, my family and the men holding Riverrun, to save the life of my son.”

His voice broke once more and he slumped down in his chair again, his grief overwhelming him. Sansa, overcome by his words, wrapped her arms around him and embraced him tightly.

“I am so sorry, Uncle,” she whispered. “That sounds horrible.”

They stayed in silence for a moment, and Sansa held on tightly to him, hoping to comfort him through his grief and guilt.

The silence was broken by a soft knock at the door.

“Enter,” Sansa called out, releasing Edmure and turning to the door.

Vyman, the maester, entered, with Edric opening the door for him, his hands full with a wooden tray laden with several bottles. The man’s chain jangled as he crossed the room and placed the tray on a small table. Edric remained the doorway, looking at his lord with an expression of concern on his face

Sansa turned back to Edmure and gripped his hand and gently pulled, urging him to rise from the chair.

“Come on, Uncle,” she said soothingly, feeling him rise from the chair at her direction. “Get some sleep.”

Sansa steered him towards his bed and seated him on it. Edmure put his head in his hands once more. Feeling another swell of pity for her uncle, Sansa turned to the maester, who was pouring out the mixtures into a small goblet.

“Can you help him to sleep?” she asked.

“Of course, my lady,” he replied reassuringly, nodding in response. “And it should only take a few minutes.”

He walked over to the bed and handed Edmure the goblet, which he swallowed without any hesitation or complaint. Vyman examined Edmure quickly, clearly checking for any sign of harm or injury. After a moment, he seemed satisfied and nodded briefly.

“He seems fine physically,” he said to Sansa, his brow furrowing slightly. “Aside from being weak from lack of food.

“However, I’m sure that this isn’t what ails Lord Edmure.”

Sansa nodded in agreement.

“And bad experiences, and the memories of them, are some of the hardest things to cure,” the maester said wisely, as he places the lids and stoppers back on his vials and flasks. “Some sleep will do him good, as will some food when he wakes.”

“Will he be fine on his own?” Sansa asked quietly, as she turned to watch Edmure lay himself down.

“He will sleep for hours, my lady,” Vyman replied. “I will check on him a few times before I too retire for the night. But I can ask the guard to check on him throughout the night, if that is acceptable to you, Lady Sansa?”

“Yes, thank you Maester,” she said, smiling. “I will stay with him until he falls asleep.”

Vyman bowed his head, and retreated from the room, Edric stepping aside to allow the maester pass.

“I will keep an eye on Lord Tully during the night, Lady Sansa,” Edric said, nodding solemnly. “You have my word.”

“Thank you, Edric,” Sansa replied, smiling widely at him.

The guard nodded once more before leaving the room, closing the door softly behind him. Sans turned back to the bed and saw that Edmure was still lying upon it, although still awake.

She pulled up a chair and sat down beside the bed. Edmure turned to meet her eye and he smiled a little, with Sansa seeing the tiredness in his eyes.

“Thank you, Sansa,” he said, the drowsiness in his voice evident. “For everything.”

He paused for a moment, and Sansa could see a hint of sadness and something that looked almost like pride on his face.

“You’re so much like your mother,” Edmure whispered, before closing his eyes and succumbing to sleep.

Sansa sat stunned for a moment by his declaration, feeling a mixture of pride in being compared to her mother but also sorrow that she couldn’t be here herself to help comfort her brother.

*

In the days following this, Edmure seemed to recover a little of his old self. Not only was he beginning to eat more, but he would also begin to venture from his rooms again. It would only be for a matter of minutes, to wander the corridors or to stand at one of the windows and look out, but Sansa was pleased with the change.

In this time, they had also received a messenger, who informed them that Lady Roslin and their child had left the Twins several days prior and so would be arriving at Riverrun any day. This encouraged Sansa to try and spur Edmure on to venture more from his rooms, so as to be able to welcome the arrival of his wife and son.

One bright day, after Sansa had finished more of the organising for the arrival of Edmure’s wife and heir, she made her way to his rooms. She was pleased to hear a loud voice telling her to enter, and even more pleased when she did so to see Edmure standing by the open doors to his balcony, rather than huddled in a corner or on his bed.

“Good afternoon, Uncle,” she said brightly.

Edmure turned away from the window and Sansa was happy to see that he looked a lot healthier. A few good meals and good nights of sleep had certainly helped. His face didn’t look as gaunt, nor he as frail as he had, and the dark shadows beneath his eyes has reduced considerably.

“Good afternoon, Sansa,” he replied, with a wide smile on his face.

 “How are you feeling?” she asked, allowing a flitter of concern into her voice.

“I am well,” he said, still smiling, which only bolstered Sansa’s confidence.

“Are you looking forward to seeing your wife and son?” she asked him, as she reached Edmure and stood facing him.

His smile became more fixed at these words, and Sansa felt a flicker of panic, wondering if she had said too much.

“It will be… strange,” he said slowly, looking off into space. “I haven’t seen Roslin since our wedding night, and I’ve never met my son.”

“They will be here any day now,” Sansa began slowly, being careful to not push him too far too quickly. “Would you like to be there to meet them?”

Edmure thought for a moment, with Sansa waiting with baited breath, inwardly praying to the gods for him to say that he would. The silence stretched on while she awaited his answer, with him staring off blankly into space.

“Yes,” he said faintly, causing her to exhale in relief. “Yes, I will.”

“That’s good,” she said, smiling widely at him. “I’m sure that they will both be pleased to see you.”

Sansa paused for a moment, before making up her mind.

“Will you join me for a walk, Uncle?” she asked.

Again, Edmure stiffened slightly at her words, his eyes darting nervously from her to the door. Sensing this, Sansa immediately moved forward and took his arm in her own and squeezed it comfortingly.

“I know that you have only wandered the corridor for now, but Lady Roslin and your son will be here any day now, so you will need to be waiting in the courtyard upon their arrival,” she said, soothingly. “And I will be with you the whole time.”

After a moment Edmure nodded jerkily, before a look of grim determination crossed his face.

“Of course,” he said, before turning to look at Sansa, and the ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “Shall we?”

With Sansa smiling a little in response, the two of them left the room.

As they walked down through the keep, Sansa could see many of the guards and servants stopping to look with amazement at the sight of Edmure. At this point it had been several weeks since he had been seen by the majority of them, and it had been the topic of much conversation and speculation among them all.

Before long they left the confines of the keep and into the sunny courtyard. While there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, there was definitely a growing winter chill in the air. Sansa gathered her cloak around her tighter as they crossed the courtyard, with several more people looking on in stunned surprise at the sight of their lord.

Sansa turned to look at Edmure, ready to share a smile with him over the constant looks of stunned disbelief he was receiving. However, Edmure was not looking at her. He was busy casting his eyes around the courtyard, at his childhood home, at all the Tully sigils emblazoned on their colours.

Sansa suspected that she understood the reason for the look of distaste and sadness on his face, as she had felt the same feelings. No matter that Riverrun had been his home for his whole life, he had been imprisoned within its walls, while it had been overrun and occupied by enemies, like Winterfell had been for her.

Just like Winterfell would always partly remind Sansa of her time spent there with Ramsay, there would be a part of Edmure that will regard Riverrun as being his prison. As she thought this Sansa ripped his arm tighter and felt another rush of pity for her uncle.

They continued to walk and were soon walking through the godswood, with the trees pressing on all sides. They soon stopped for a moment, taking in the sight of Riverrun towering above them. Sansa saw Edmure’s eyes move to one of the outer walls of the keep, where there were several damaged areas from siege weaponry.

“The Lannisters,” Edmure muttered under his breath. “I shouldn’t have helped them.”

Sansa heard the anger in his voice now, and she could see his hands coiling themselves into fists.

“They destroyed and defiled my home, then imprisoned me in it.”

“If you hadn’t, they would have laid siege until they either surrendered or starved them out, then levelled Riverrun, and killed everyone who remained.”

Sansa could see the look of guilt returning to his face once more, and she felt her stomach sink.

_Oh no!_ she thought desperately, hoping that she had not pushed him too far, that he would go back to how he had been.

“I’m sorry, Sansa,” he said sadly, as he moved to leave. “But this was a bad idea.”

“Uncle!” Sansa said, tightening her grip on his arm.

Edmure stopped in his tracks and turned back to her, a look of surprise on his face at her grip.

“I know how you feel,” she said softly. “Feeling like a prisoner in your own home. I feel the same sometimes in Winterfell, after being the Bolton’s prisoner there.”

Sansa shuddered involuntarily at the thought of her time in Winterfell while the flayed man had flown above it in the place of their wolf. She felt Edmure grip her arm back comfortingly.

Sansa took a deep breath to compose herself, and then met his eyes once more.

“It _is_ hard to live with, Uncle. I know that too. But we have to be strong, for our families.”

Edmure’s face became covered by a look of surprise and curiosity at her words. He seemed torn between his desire to leave and retreat back to rooms and to stay and hear what she had to say.

“If Jon and I had lost the Battle of the Bastards I was prepared to _never_ let Ramsay get hold of me again.”

She didn’t elaborate on her meaning, but from the shocked and serious expression on her uncle’s face, she could tell that she didn’t need to as he understood exactly what she meant.

“But once we took Winterfell back, and Arya and Bran were returned to us, I knew that I needed to be strong, for both me and them.”

Edmure looked back at her steadily, neither making an attempt nor showing any intention of leaving now, clearly giving her his undivided attention.

“Your wife and child are on their way here, and they need you. Your son _needs_ his father!”

Edmure merely stared back at her for a moment, his face completely unreadable. Sansa waited with baited breath, wondering if she had managed to help him or if she had merely made it worse.

“You’re right,” he said emphatically, nodding. “My wife and son will need me with them, not hiding myself away and feeling sorry for myself.”

Before Sansa could do anything more, other than feel relieved that he seemed to have taken her words to heard, Edmure reached out and embraced her tightly.

“Thank you, Sansa,” he whispered. “For everything.”

“It was nothing, Uncle,” she replied, hugging him back. “You’re family.”

After a moment, the two of them separated, with Sansa smiling widely up at her uncle, who returned it in kind.

_It is good to see him smile,_ Sansa thought. _He looks better than he has in a while._

“Lord Edmure! Lady Sansa!” came a hurried voice.

They both turned to see a messenger hurrying towards them.

“Lady Roslin’s carriage has been sighted on the road, my Lord,” he panted, bowing to Edmure.

Sansa turned to her uncle happily and saw, despite his nervousness and dread about this meeting, a flicker of happiness too, at the thought of meeting his son.

“Thank you,” Sansa said to the messenger. “We shall be along to the courtyard shortly.”

The messenger bowed once more and hurried away, leaving them both alone once more.

“So,” she said, smiling widely as she turned to her uncle. “Are you ready to meet your son?”

“Yes,” he replied, shifting nervously. “Yes, I think so.”

“Then come on,” Sansa said, taking his arm once more as they left the godswood, at a much brisker pace than they had upon entering.

They made it to the courtyard as quickly as they could, in time to see all of the Tully men and household staff assembling to welcome the lady of the keep and the heir to House Tully. Sansa and Edmure stood in the centre of the courtyard, separated from everyone else and in full view of the large gates.

Sansa took a few steps backwards, enough to give Edmure his space during his reunion with his family and the place of importance as the lord of the Riverrun but close enough to show she was there if he needed her.

The minutes stretched on, the silence only broken by the restless movement of the soldiers of their horses, or by the occasional cough or sneeze from the assembled crowd. Edmure, on the other hand, remained as still as stone, his gaze fixed on the gate.

Soon the carriage entered through the gate, with the riders accompanying it bearing both the Tully and Frey banners. While the Frey sigil still filled Sansa with feelings of anger and hatred for their role in the betrayal and death of her mother and brother, she was determined to not allow these feelings to impact on how she acted around Roslin.

Sansa was looking to follow Jon’s lead, in how he had dealt with the Karstark and Umber children, by not punishing them for the crimes of their elders, of which they had no knowledge nor involvement. Roslin had not taken part in the Red Wedding, and so Sansa would not hold her accountable for it.

As the procession came to a halt, Sansa saw Edmure tense up slightly, but she knew it was likely more from nerves than anything else. The door to the carriage opened and Sansa saw a young, brown haired woman step down from it, holding the hand of a young boy. While the young child could walk well on his own, he was clearly overwhelmed by his surroundings, as he would keep stopping to take it all in, his mother having to urge him on gently.

When they reached Edmure, Sansa saw Roslin lean down to speak to their son. Now that she was closer, Sansa could see, from what she had been told of them, that the young woman bore precious little resemblance to the classic House Frey features.

“Lord Edmure,” Roslin said quietly, bowing her head.

Sansa could sense the fear in her voice, and she felt a rush of pity for her. Not only was she leaving the only home she had known but it was to go to a place that had suffered heavily at the hands of her family, where the Frey name was spat upon and cursed.

“Welcome home to Riverrun,” Edmure said, bowing his head slightly towards his wife.

Sansa could see a look of relief ghost cross Roslin’s face for a moment, clearly relieved that Edmure would welcome her, rather than scorn her arrival. Roslin smiled at Edmure, before ushering the young boy forward.

“May I present our son, my lord,” she said proudly, as she beamed down at her son.

Sansa watched as Edmure paused for their briefest moment, before bending down and picking the young boy up into his hands and held him there, looking into the young boy’s face, with the child merely regarding this development with curiosity.

“What did you name him?” Edmure asked his wife, and Sansa could hear the happiness and pride in his voice, despite only seeing the back of his head.

However, Sansa could see that Roslin merely look uncomfortable by this question, averting her eye from the union of father and son, her expression changing from happiness to fear instantly.

“I-” she began, before tailing off.

Sansa saw her take a deep breath, before beginning once more.

“I didn’t,” she said quietly, “My family insisted on naming him Walder.”

Sansa heard a collective intake of breath from the collected Tully audience, as well as an outbreak of low muttering, at her words, as well as saw Edmure visibly stiffen. Sansa’s feelings of pity for Roslin increased when she saw the young Frey begin to cower slightly under the weight of the scowls that were beginning to be directed towards her from all sides,

_The poor woman,_ Sansa thought sadly. _She’s having the bear the weight of her family’s crimes, despite having no part in them._

“What would you have us name him?” Roslin asked quietly.

There was a brief moment of silence, where all eyes were on Edmure, awaiting his decision. But then he visibly relaxed, while simultaneously pulling his son closer to him, whole also reaching out with his free hand and taking hold of one of Roslin’s.

“Brynden,” he said loudly, causing a ripple of approval throughout the surrounding crowd. “After my uncle, the Blackfish. A brave man that I would be honoured for my on to look up to and admire.”

This caused an outbreak of applause and cheering from those present, however Sansa cared little for it. She cared more about the young scared woman standing in front of her, who seemed relieved that the mood had shifted and that she was no longer the centre of everyone’s attention and scorn.

“My wife,” Edmure said softly, as he looked at the young woman. “I thank you for this gift that you have given us, and I promise you that I will be the best husband, and best father, that I can be.”

Roslin’s face flooded with relief at his words, and Sansa couldn’t help a smile from crossing her face as she saw the fear and worry flood from the woman’s face. As she watched Edmure press a light kiss to the woman’s head, Sansa couldn’t help but feel proud of her uncle.

Despite the doubt, fear and guilt that he was no doubt still feeling, he was holding himself up well in front of both his subjects and his wife. And not just his wife, but also a woman that had been a part of an arranged marriage with a now hated house.

“My wife, this is my niece,” Edmure said suddenly, interrupting Sansa’s train of thought. “Lady Sansa Stark.”

At the mention of her name, Sansa saw Roslin stiffen up, her face becoming a mask of terror as she turned to look at her. While Sansa had expected some reaction at the mention of the Stark name, she hadn’t expected it to be this pronounced.

“Pleased to meet you,” Sansa said politely, reaching out to gently take the young woman’s hand in her own.

“I’m sorry,” Roslin replied, her sorrow evident in her voice. “I am _so_ sorry for what my family did to yours.”

Sansa met the young woman’s tear-filled eyes, before enclosing her hand within both of her own and squeezing it tightly.

“I do _not_ blame you,” Sansa said firmly. “You didn’t know what your family had planned that night. And I won’t hold you responsible for their actions.

Roslin’s look of fear disappeared at her words, to be replaced by one of relief and gratitude.

“Thank you, Lady Sansa,” she said, gripping her hands back.

“You’re welcome,” Sansa replied, nodding a little. “Now let’s get you and young Brynden settled in.”

As Roslin reached out to take her son back from his father’s arms, Sansa looked back out towards the gate, and wondered how Jon and Daenerys’ ventures further south were going.        


	41. Tyrion VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go everyone! Hope you enjoy it. Please let me know your thoughts down below.  
> Next up will be a Jaime chapter, of him and the Hound's mission to get the Mountain. So all I can say is.... Get Hype.

 

Tyrion

 

The morning of the battle came with a blanket of frost, making the grass crackle and crunch underfoot as the final preparations were made. As Tyrion stood outside of his tent, fastening his cloak around his neck tighter against the morning chill, he watched the men preparing for the coming fight, emerging from their frosted tents, tightening the straps of their armour or placing swords at their hips.

The deadline for Cersei’s surrender had passed at noon the day before, and there hadn’t been any reply from the capital. No word of their refusal of terms. Not even a volley of arrows from the battlements to show their agreement for battle.

While Tyrion hadn’t expected Cersei to surrender so easily, he had still held a slimmer of hope that she would see sense, even if it meant that she would be executed or spend the rest of her life in the Black Cells.

Sighing deeply, and seeing his breath rise as mist in front of his face, Tyrion set off from his tent and towards the front lines. As he passed by Varys’ tent, which was immediately next to his, Tyrion could see the dull glow of candlelight through the fabric and knew that the man had likely been awake for hours and would already be at Daenerys’ side.

As he walked on, Tyrion took in the wide array of different fighters that had assembled here.

There were the Dothraki, who had already begun to adapt to the growing chill in the air by wearing scavenged armour pieces from the fallen enemy soldiers. Many of them were saddling their horses in preparation. They would not be used in the storming of the city, with the narrow and winding streets of the capital putting them at a disadvantage on horseback. Therefore, the plan was for them to remain outside the city wall and to maintain the blockade, ready to prevent any escape attempt by Cersei or any of her general.

Then came the Unsullied, the vast majority of whom were already ready for battle, moving to stand nearby those who would be in their phalanx. They too had adapted their attire to accommodate Westeros’ milder climate, with a thick woollen undershirt now becoming a part of their uniform, with their leather armour laid overtop of it.

The Unsullied would be the first through the gate, using their tight and well-disciplined shield formations to push the defenders back and grant some room for the attackers to enter and begin to push into the city.

The rest of the force would be comprised of a mixture of the Northern houses and the remainder of the Westerosi houses. Out of the various factions of their army, these had, rather unsurprisingly, mixed the easiest. There were still a few dozens of them at least, the older members of both factions, that had fought alongside each other during the Rebellion. A group of men who had been teenagers or young men when they had fought against the Mad King, now reunited again twenty years later to face another common enemy.

It had created a sense of camaraderie among them, which had spread onto the younger members of the army. A feeling that once again they were taking part in a momentous moment in the history of the Seven Kingdoms, removing another mad monarch from the Iron Throne.

As Tyrion walked past all these different factions, made up of various fighting men from different nations and continents, he was impressed that they had all been brought together like this.

 _Following our young monarchs,_ Tyrion thought to himself, unable to stop himself from feeling a rush of pride for the two of them.

It didn’t take long before Tyrion came across the pair of them, standing atop a small hill that overlooked everything. As expected Varys was already there, standing off to one side with Jorah Mormont, giving the two of them their privacy. The older Northman was ready for the fight, with sword at his hip and armour on.

The two young monarchs were similarly dressed for battle. While Jon was dressed similarly to how he usually did, wearing his leather gambeson, he had also added a steel gorget to protect his neck during battle. Dany on the other hand was wearing a long, black armour-like dress. Tyrion suspected that it was made of toughened leather to provide her with a modicum of protection from enemy archers while on Drogon’s back.

They were clearly sharing a tender goodbye, standing close to each other as they spoke furtively. As he grew closer to them, Tyrion saw them lean in and share a deep kiss, with Dany placing her hands on either side of Jon’s face and pulling him towards her, while Jon had his hand at her back.

Tyrion smiled widely at the sight. He had grown rather fond of the pair of them, and he was pleased that the two of them had found some happiness. They had both been through a lot and they both deserved it. And on top of that their marriage would be of benefit to the kingdoms, uniting two of the three sides of this conflict, with the third to be dealt with later today.

As Tyrion reached them, he joined Varys and Jorah, wanting to give them their privacy. After moment, the two of them broke off their kiss, although they remained with the arms around each other for a moment longer, their foreheads pressed together.

The two unentangled themselves from each other and turned to the three of them, still standing and waiting for them. Tyrion, Varys and Jorah took this as their invitation to approach and moved forward together in unison.

“Good morning, Your Grace, King Jon,” Tyrion said, nodding to them both in turn.

“Lord Tyrion,” Daenerys replied with a smile, while Jon nodded his head in acknowledgment.

“Are we ready for the battle?” Tyrion asked curiosity, looking between them.

“It would seem so,” Jon replied, taking a step forward and rubbing his hands together. “The men are prepared and the plan is in place.”

“And are you determined to lead it?” Tyrion asked, raising an eyebrow questioningly.

Jon’s expression changed to one of exasperation and Tyrion could see that he was struggling to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

“I am going to lead the vanguard through the gates myself,” Jon said, in a determined tone. “With Tormund and Ser Jorah.”

“Are you sure that is wise?”

“Aye,” Jon replied, his exasperation showing in his voice now. “Why should I expect these people to risk their lives for me if I am not willing to do the same?”

“And, while that is an admirable sentiment under normal circumstances Jon, even one that I would have encouraged, these _aren’t_ normal circumstances.

“We will need you for the war to the North. While the fight against Cersei is important, that one is more so. And if you should fall here-”

“Then I shall make sure not to,” Jon interrupted, before taking a few steps forward and clapping Tyrion on the shoulder. “I understand the point you are making Tyrion, but I need to be there for the battle, fighting alongside them all.”

Tyrion sighed and shook his head, knowing that he was wasting his time.

“You Northerners and your damn stubbornness!” he sighed, shaking his head with his own feelings of exasperation.

Any further argument that Tyrion would have made against Jon’s actions were lost when Jaime walked over to them, flanked on either side by an Unsullied guard. He was fully suited up in his black and crimson Lannister armour, his sword placed at his right hip. Tyrion could see a look of grim determination on his face, mixed with a hint of resignation to his fate.

When Jaime reached them and came to a halt, the Unsullied stayed close to either side of him. Tyrion knew that Jaime wouldn’t attempt anything foolish, as did everyone present, but he also recognised that they were doing so to prevent any unwise notions from entering his head.

“Your Graces,” Jaime said, emphasising the plural, nodding his head to Dany and Jon in turn.

Jaime then turned his head and met Tyrion’s eye, giving him a small smile and a slight nod.

“I should finish the preparations,” Jon said suddenly, drawing all eyes to him.

Tyrion could see the tension in his posture at the arrival of Jaime. Regardless of Tyrion’s feelings about his brother, he couldn’t deny the fact that he _had_ attempted to murder Bran Stark and couldn’t blame Jon for the anger that he no doubt felt.

“King Jon,” Varys said, taking a step forward and bowed his head.

“Lord Varys?” Jon replied, turning to him, raising an eyebrow inquisitively.

“Once you are within the walls, some of my spies will approach you,” he said, straightening up and meeting his eye. “They have been keeping an eye on Cersei’s preparations for the battle and will inform you of anything that could help you. But unfortunately, I haven’t been able to receive their reports. Any ravens flying in and out of the city are shot down, and it would expose them.”

“I thought you said that Cersei and Qyburn had gotten most of your ‘little birds’?” Dany said, turning to him with curiosity in her voice.

“They did, my Queen. But I took the precaution of sending new spies into the city before Cersei locked the gates.”

“How will we recognise them?” Jon asked. “If a random man runs up to us in the middle of a battle, he Is likely to get himself killed.”

“And how will they be able to distinguish them from Cersei’s spies?” Tyrion pointed out. “They could have found your new arrivals and replaced them with their own.”

“They will expect my spies to be children, like my little birds,” Varys replied. “However, the new spies are now men grown. There are three of them. One has a scar through his left eye, rendering him blind in that eye. Another had no teeth and limp. The third is a posing as a crippled beggar, getting around the city on a small wheeled cart.”

“Thank you, Lord Varys,” Jon said, shaking the man’s hand. “I shall keep an eye out for them when we enter the city.”                                                         

Jon turned away from Varys and, after a brief pause, took a step towards Jaime. Tyrion could see Jorah Mormont and the Unsullied tense up slightly, anticipating tensions between the two. However, Tyrion knew them both better than that. Not only would Jaime not react if on were to say anything, as he too knew the error of his actions that day in the North, but he also knew that Jon wouldn’t make a scene about it so close before the battle, not wanting any discord or distractions.

“Good luck in your task, Ser Jaime,” Jon said bluntly, inclining his head slightly.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Jaime replied, clearly taken aback by this. “I have a feeling that I will need it.”

Jon then moved his arm forward slightly, as if to shake Jaime’s hand to wish him luck, before he thought better of it. He merely nodded once more, before walking away.

“Jon!” Tyrion called out, before he got too far away.

The younger man turned at his voice, with a look of surprised amusement and curiosity on his face.

“Make sure you survive,” Tyrion said, with a smile. “We will share a drink to celebrate after our victory.”

Jon laughed at this, and Tyrion was pleased to see some of the tension lift from the man’s shoulders.

“At this point Tyrion, you’re not far from having a drink to celebrate the sun rising in the morning,” Jon chuckled.

“How do you know that I don’t already?” Tyrion jested.

Jon laughed again, before turning to leave once more, shaking his head slightly. Tyrion also saw Dany roll her eyes a little at his jest, although her small smirk betrayed her display of exasperation.

Tyrion turned his attention away from Dany, who turned to speak with Varys and Jorah, and Jon’s retreating back to address his brother. Thankfully the Unsullied allowed Jaime to take a few steps unguarded now that Dany was a safe distance away.

“Good luck, brother,” Tyrion said earnestly.

“As I said to your Northern friend,” Jaime replied, indicating towards Jon’s departing figure. “I have a feeling that I will need luck. This is a suicide mission.”

Tyrion nodded his head a little. As much as he wished for his brother’s success, he knew that attempting to assassinate the Mountain, who would be in the Red Keep protecting Cersei, during the middle of a battle was a tall order.

 _As it should be,_ Tyrion reminded himself. _He is being punished._

“Well, at least you couldn’t ask for a better fighter to accompany you,” Tyrion replied, forcing a confident smirk onto his face. “With a more _compelling_ reason to make sure that you manage to succeed.”

Two of the things known the things most about the Hound was his ruthless fighting ability as well as his intense hatred of his brother. Both of which would go in Jaime’s favour as they fought their way through the streets in order to reach him.

“That is true,” Jaime replied, nodding a little, although his face was still covered by a look of preoccupied concern.

After a moment’s pause, where Jaime looked out towards the city, the place that had been their home for several years, a place that he would now have fight his way through. Tyrion watched his brother in silence, content to give him a moment’s peace to collect his thoughts, which were no doubt occupied with the thought of their sister, and what he would have to do when he saw her.

“Well,” Jaime said abruptly as he tuned away from King’s Landing, making Tyrion start slightly by the suddenness. “I suppose I should go and find Clegane.”

Jaime took a few steps forward towards Tyrion, bent down and hugged him tightly. Tyrion responded in kind, knowing that there was a very real chance that this would be the last time he ever saw his brother.

After a moment the two of them separated, giving each other a firm nod and a thin, stoic smile, almost a grimace.

“Good luck, Lannister,” came Daenerys’ voice, causing both of the Lannister brothers to turn to her. “I wish you well.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Jaime replied, looking preoccupied once more.

There was a moment’s pause, where his look of deep thought got greater and greater, before Jaime spoke again.

“Your Grace, I know I am to kill the Mountain, but what you have me do with Cersei?”

By the way that Dany tensed up slightly at that, but her face showing no real display of shock or surprise, Tyrion guessed that she had been anticipating this question from him. This suspicion was proven true by the speed with which she replied.

“I would prefer that your sister remain alive, to answer for her crimes against the people of King’s Landing, and of the Seven Kingdoms as a whole.”

Jaime merely nodded in response, with no change to his stoic expression. Tyrion saw Dany’s brow furrow slightly in confusion.

“You do not seem pleased by this, Lannister” she said, not unkindly. “Surely you must be pleased that I am not ordering your sister’s death?”

However, Jaime merely shrugged in response.

“It wouldn’t matter if you did,” he said callously. “She means nothing to me anymore.”

Tyrion was a little taken aback by his harsh words. While Jaime had told him of his anger towards Cersei, and his knowledge that she might have to die, Tyrion had always suspected that deep down Jaime might still hold some reservations over it.

 _It would appear not,_ He thought, as he regarded his brother’s stony expression.

“I shall go and find Clegane,” Jaime said again, before giving Tyrion one last nod of farewell before setting off down the hill.

Tyrion watched his brother go, a feeling of worry gnawing at his insides. He hoped that this wouldn’t be the last time he saw his brother alive, and certainly not at the cost of keeping Cersei alive.

Before long Jaime got so far away from them that he was beginning to mingle with the other soldiers and it was becoming hard to pick him out from the crowd. Tyrion begrudgingly turned away and back towards the others.

He saw that Jorah too had walked away, most likely to join the men in preparing to breach the gates, and that Varys had taken a step back from Daenerys and was stood looking out over the assembling soldiers. The woman herself was standing at the crest of the hill they were stood on, her hands folded in front of her, looking at something out his view.

When Tyrion reached her, and stood at her side, he saw what had captivated her attention so much.

Down below he could see the green form of Rhaegal lowering his head down towards a solitary figure. Despite the distance making recognising the person’s face impossible, it was clearly Jon as Rhaegal would never let anyone approach him in this way, unless they were in his mother’s presence.

Tyrion looked up towards Daenerys’ face and saw a wide smile on her face as he regarded the two of them, with the look of pride and affection being all too plain to see.

“They have become rather close, haven’t they?” Tyrion said, smirking a little at the look on her face.

She looked down and met his eye, her smile widening a little more.

“They have,” she replied, nodding her head in agreement.

However, as she turned back to look at the farewell between her child and her lover, Tyrion saw her expression change to one of apprehension. Tyrion reached out and took hold of her forearm gently, feeling her jolt slightly in surprise at his touch.

“Jon will be fine,” Tyrion reassured her, as she looked down to meet his eyes once more. “He’s died once already, and he is unlikely to do so again.”

Despite her nodding in agreement, he saw that the look of concern hadn’t shifted from her face.

“I should prepare Drogon,” she said quietly.

“Very well,” Tyrion replied, realising her arm. “I wish you luck, my Queen. And, please be careful. Fuck knows what we’ll do if we lose both of you.”

A begrudging smirk broke through Dany’s mask of concern, as she chuckled slightly at his jest. The Queen gripped his shoulder briefly before turning away and she too headed down the hill.

Tyrion watched her go, with his feeling of dread increasing now that Daenerys, Jon and his brother were all readying themselves to head into battle. He felt Varys’ presence as the man walked up to stand alongside him, to get a better view to observe the battle from afar.

“Well,” Varys said slowly, before pausing, leaving his sentence hanging in the air between them.

“What do we do if they lose?” Varys then asked, and Tyrion could see him look down at him out of the corner of his eye, although he didn’t turn to meet his gaze.

“We hope that Cersei makes it quick,” Tyrion replied, bluntly. “And that we’re long dead before the army of the dead arrives this far south.”

An awkward silence fell between them at this. Tyrion suspected that, while he helped to prepare for the march North after defeating Cersei and didn’t openly criticise or cast doubts, Varys didn’t quite believe in the threat posed by the White Walkers.

 _Not something I can blame him for,_ Tyrion thought, as they watched the men begin to move into formation. _It is a strange tale._

The two of them watched on for a while, as the men assembled into the various formations and groups, as per their battle plan. As the minutes stretched on, in complete silence atop the hill, Tyrion began to watch the dragons, who began to stretch their wings in preparation for their flight, with their mother standing beside them, despite her only being a tiny figure to Tyrion.

He looked out past them, and over the capital. From their vantage point they could see the mouth of the bay, where the great chain was raised across it. The great chain that Tyrion had commissioned to repel the attack of Stannis Baratheon was now being used to keep out their attack. Tyrion could see Daenerys’ fleet, commanded by Yara and Victarion Greyjoy, assembled on the other side of the chain, awaiting the order to begin their bombardment with the siege weaponry aboard.

Inside the bay, both protected and trapped by the raising of the chain, was what remained of Cersei’s fleet. It consisted of both Lannister and Greyjoy ships, although Tyrion suspected that there were still some remained Greyjoy ships back on Pyke, as their force on Dragonstone would have noticed a large-scale arrival of reinforcements to the capital.

 _They appear to be an easy target for the dragons,_ Tyrion thought. _But they will likely have planned for that and will be equipped to deal with it._

Once the men were assembled in formation, with the tiny figures of Jon and Tormund standing at the front, the time seemed to drag on forever. The entire field seemed to be still, with the atmosphere of tension and anticipation palpable. The only sounds that reached them was the wind coming in from the sea, making the sails of the Greyjoy fleets creak and groan, and the occasional shriek of the dragons, who were growing restless at being kept waiting.

After what seemed like hours, a horn sounded.

Then the whole world seemed to start once more.

The dragons all let out thunderous roars and took to the skies, their scaly wings creating such a downdraught of air that the trees were being bending over by the force of it.

There was a collective roar from the men as they began to march towards the capital walls, the Unsullied and the tower shield wielding soldiers at the fore to guard against the enemy archers.

Catapults and ballistae begin firing from the battlements, their deadly projectiles peppering across the battlefield. The majority of them missed their mark, thudding heavily but harmless into the mud. But a couple of the catapult projectiles landed amidst the men, crushing them under the large boulder like stones. Some of the ballistae spears too landed among the phalanxes, but they merely thudded into the raised shields.

Some of the siege weaponry had been directed towards the now mid-air dragons, as they soared towards Blackwater Bay and the enemy ships that awaited. However, every single one of them fell short of their target. The closest was towards Viserion, who merely tipped slightly in the air to avoid the ballista spears flying towards him, his almost instinctive reaction no doubt borne of the wounds he received from a similar weapon during the Battle of Dragonstone.

Tyrion’s gaze stayed on the dragons as they dived over the bay, all three of them letting out torrents of flame upon the Lannister allied Greyjoy ships, faint sounds of shock and fear reaching their ears.

As they had planned, the dragons flew straight over them and toward the chain, with Drogon heading to the tower that secured it on one side while Rhaegal went to the other, with Viserion flying in a loop to begin a second dive at the Lannister fleet. Drogon and Rhaegal blasted the towers with unbroken jets of fire while Viserion hovering for a moment in the centre of the bay and let out his own, directed towards a large Lannister galley that appeared to be the command ship of the fleet.

The ship didn’t last long against Viserion’s assault. The sail caught alight almost immediately, which soon spread to the mast. However, that was the least of the crew’s worries as the hull soon caught light too, which caused the entire ship to collapse in on itself, dragging itself and its crew down to the depths of the bay.

The towers lasted longer against Drogon and Rhaegal’s assault. Even from this far away Tyrion could see the ends of the chain begin to glow bright orange as they were heated by the dragon fire. Soon this glow spread to the towers themselves. Tyrion had heard the stories of how Balerion the Dread’s fire had melted the stone walls of Harrenhal and, while those walls still stood to this day, these towers were nowhere near the same thickness.

The stones towers soon began to buckle and tilt under the constant stream of fire, with the chain starting to shake and dip slightly in the middle as its tether began to weaken. After a few more moments, the towers collapsed, the stones falling down the water below, with the chain doing the same, causing a large wave of water to spread across the bay, causing the boats of either side to be buffeted by it.

Once the chain fell, they heard another horn sound, this time from Yara’s Greyjoy fleet. The sails were then lowered, revealing the yellow kraken sign on their black sails, and the boats began to move forward to engage the Lannister fleet. They also began to fire their catapults, with fiery projectiles arcing through the air, falling among the opposing fleet.

Drogon and Rhaegal turned away from the twisted and smouldering wreckages of the towers and soared back to join their sibling in raining fire upon their enemy. Tyrion watched on in awe at the sight of the dragons waging war. He had seen them do similar on Dragonstone, but it was still incredible to see, after the creatures being gone for years.

Despite his fascination with the dragons, Tyrion’s curiosity was grabbed by the battle at the walls. As he turned back to the capital, he saw that their force was heading towards the King’s Gate.

During the strategy meeting, Jon and the other generals had decided to breach the city through the King’s Gate. Other than the River Gate, it was the closest to the Red Keep, where Cersei will no doubt have barricaded herself. They had decided to not go through the River Gate as, while it would have led to a shorter route to the keep, it would mean that they would have had to go through the Fish Market. It would be easy for their enemy to lay traps and ambushes among the narrow passageways, which would potentially cripple their attacking force.

When their army got close to the gate, Tyrion saw them come to a halt for a moment, before one of their battering rams was wheeled forward towards the gate, the men pushing it being defended by shields held over their heads.

As the ram grew closer to the gate, Tyrion saw the defenders begin to fling casks from atop the battlements, down onto the ram below.

“They’re using pitch,” came Varys’ voice from beside Tyrion, causing him to jump slightly as he had forgotten that he was there.

It appeared that way, although there was something about it that didn’t seem right to him. A feeling that was shared by Jon and the other commanders, as Tyrion could see them urging everyone back.

It was only when more casks had been thrown onto the ground and began to pool there, under the ram, and the first torches could be sighted on the battlements that Tyrion realised exactly what was wrong, with a horrible sinking feeling in his gut.

_The green tint._

“Wildfire!” Tyrion gasped in horror, as the torches were thrown from the battlements.

He watched the torches fall helplessly, hearing a shocked gasp from Varys next to him, seeing the men hurry to scramble away from the pool on the floor, with many of them being killed by archers once they left the protection of the shields.

Then the torch hit.

A green explosion of flame erupted from the pool of liquid, rising high into the air. The ram was blown into dozens of pieces and sent flying across the battlefield, each of them burning with green flame. Even from this far away, a wave of heat buffeted Tyrion and Varys and they watched on, completely aghast.

Jon and the other commanders had managed to warn most of the men in time and they had _just_ made away from the area of the blast. Some of them hadn’t been so lucky and were now flailing around the field, engulfed in emerald flame, their screams and cries of pain reaching Tyrion’s ears.

He had used the same tactic at the Battle of Blackwater to destroy Stannis’ fleet, but being on the receiving end of such a move was an altogether different experience. Seeing one of their hopes of destroying the gates burning on the field, hearing the dying screams of their men burning alive, the smell of smoke and burning flesh assaulting his nose.

Jon and the other commanders managed to rally the men and get them back into formation quickly, with the shield bearers moving to the front. They then began to march westwards, following the curvature of the outer wall while remaining a safe distance from it, to stay away from the alternating volleys of wildfire casks and fire arrows. Tyrion too began to follow, so as to keep them in view at all times, deeply troubled by this unwelcome development.

Before long they reached the Lion Gate. The men made a cautious attempt to move towards the gate, although Tyrion saw that Jon and the commanders were reluctant to commit another battering ram just yet. Just as before, the defenders began to rain wildfire down upon their attackers. This time their men had been expecting it and manage to get safely away before it exploded, blinding them with green fire and sending another wave of intense heat washing over them.

 _If I can feel the heat all the way up here,_ Tyrion thought. _What must it be like down there for them?_

The men then began to march on once more, heading further westwards, towards the Gate of the Gods. Although Tyrion suspected that this would continue to happen at all of the gates, completely stopping their advance into the city unless they managed to find some way to deal with the wildfire.

“Where did she get all this wildfire?” Tyrion asked, turning to look at Varys as the continued to walk on, to keep the battle in their sight. “I thought she used it all when she blew up the Sept?”

“It is unknown how much wildfire Aerys had hidden throughout the city,” Varys replied, sounding thoughtful. “Cersei could have stumbled on more caches of it hidden throughout the city. Or she could simply have had the pyromancers working on it day and night for the past few weeks.”

“We can ask her when we get to her,” Tyrion growled darkly.

The Gate of the Gods soon came into view, with the carved faces of the Seven etched upon its walls. This time however, Tyrion saw that Jon and his commanders didn’t send the men towards the walls, simply placing them a safe distance away from the gate.

 _No doubt he is trying to think of a strategy to counter the wildfire,_ Tyrion mused, although he couldn’t think of anything that could do the trick.

As if to provide an answer to their problem, the roar of the dragons was heard once more, and every heard turned towards it.

Rhaegal and Viserion were flying towards them, avoiding the volleys of burning arrows that were being fired towards them. When they reached the Gate of the Gods, both dragons let loose a jet of flame towards the defenders atop the wall.

“Oh shit!” Tyrion shouted as he begun shielding his eyes, knowing what would happen.

The entire cache of wildlife atop the walls exploded, blowing the battlements apart. Masonry was sent flying in all directions, causing dozens of men to scatter to avoid being crushed by them. Deep cracks then began to appear in the walls, one of which going straight through the visage of the Father.

There was a brief moment of pause, which seemed to last forever, before the battlements collapsed. Tyrion watched on in amazement as the wall fell, the faces of the Seven shattering and falling, the gate being crushed under the weight of the giant chunks of masonry. Sections of the wall on either side of the gate fell too, with the defenders atop the walls who had escaped the wildfire explosion having to sprint away to avoid falling along with the crumbling wall.

Once the collapse of the walls ended, a cloud of dust hanging in the air where the gate had once stood, Tyrion saw that the explosion had torn a giant hole in the perimeter wall, like a gaping wound. A great roar went up from the army and they began to charge forward, storming into the city through the gap.

Tyrion looked up to see the two dragons circle back around and head back out towards the bay. While their view was now limited from their new vantage point, Tyrion could just about see the dark form of Drogon still circling the water, divebombing the ships below.

 _Daenerys must have seen the trouble the ground troops were having, and sent Rhaegal and Viserion,_ Tyrion thought thankfully, knowing that they would have had a much harder time without the intervention of the two dragons.

Tyrion turned back in time to see the ground force swarm over the wreckage of the wall and into the city, with the sound of steel clashing and battle cries beginning to echo out towards them.

 _Good luck, Jaime,_ Tyrion thought, his feeling of nervousness and dread resurfacing. _Try not to get killed._


	42. Jaime VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go everyone. Hope you all enjoy the chapter. Cleganebowl!  
> Next up will be Bran

 

Jaime

 

Jaime and the Hound, who had a look of grim determination and almost excitement on his face, were in the second group to enter through the breach, with Jon Stark and his wildling ally on the other side.

The first were the shield wielding knights and the Unsullied, to push back the defenders. They could hear the sounds of blades clashing against shields ahead of them as they followed them through, their footing uneven on the still smoking rubble. Jaime could feel the heat from the smoking stones through his boots and the smoke rising into his nostrils.

As the entered through the breach, Jaime was back among the streets of King’s Landing that he knew so well. He looked up briefly and saw the towering structure of the Red Keep, perched high above them on Aegon’s Hill.

As he looked back to the battle, he saw a Lannister man break through the shield wall, in between two tower shields. The man paused for a brief moment, before locking eyes on Jon and then charging towards him.

_Cersei must have told them to focus on him_ , Jaime thought, as he too raised his blade to defend himself.

Jaime watched on as Jon effortlessly parried the Lannister man’s wild swing, before side stepping and thrusting his blade through the front of the man’s face. A second man followed the first in attempting to take his life. This time the Northerner simply ducked under the swing, before standing up straight and pushing the attacker towards his Wildling friend. The Wildling, who seemed to be expecting such a move, slashed open the man’s throat, him dropping to the floor.

The wall managed to plug the gaps to prevent any more attackers breaking through as they continued their push into the city, with Jaime and the Hound following behind among the Westerosi knights, many of whom were raring to begin the fight.

Before long, meeting minimal resistance along the way, they reached a small courtyard, which Jaime knew was the site of a small market on some days, and saw that there were a lot more Lannister forces here awaiting them. Once they reached it, the shield wall parted slightly, and the foot soldiers charged forward, their war cries echoing off the cobbled streets.

Jaime rushed forward with them, gripping his sword tightly in his hand. As he ran forward, he notices that the Hound had rushed on ahead and was soon engaging two Lannister soldiers at once, with both of them being hesitant at facing the Hound’s giant blade.

One of the Lannister men rushed towards him, with a look of fury on his face, and his blade swinging down towards Jaime’s face. He raised his own blade to block the blow, before the two blades almost locked together and the two of them began to push against the other, trying to create space.

“Traitor!” the man snarled, with spittle flying from his mouth.

Jaime sighed deeply, before putting all his strength into pushing the enemy’s blade away, using his cross guard to direct the blade down and away from him. Jaime headbutted the man with as much force as he could, causing him to grunt and fall back a step, before thrusting his blade into the man’s gut, his blade piercing through the man’s armour.

As the man fell to the ground, Jaime pondered his words.

_Another title to add to my growing list_ , he thought angrily. _In addition to Kingslayer and possibly kinslayer._

Jaime turned to examine the battlefield.

The Hound was facing off against a member of the Queensguard, surrounded by at least three crimson clad Lannister corpses. Jaime could see the urgency and determination he had to fight his brother by the force of the man’s blows, that were causing the Queensguard to retreat backwards after blocking every blow, only just keeping hold of his sword.

Looking over to the other side of the battle, Jaime saw the new Lord Baratheon cave in the breastplate of a Lannister soldier with a single blow from his heavy maul, reminding him heavily of the young man’s father. Past him, Jaime saw Jon and his wildling ally fighting close beside each other. He saw the understanding that the two of them had, constantly aware of where the other one was and jumping in to aid them if they needed it.

Out of the corner of his eye Jaime saw another Lannister solder charging at him, and turned to deal with him, raising his blade to defend himself.

They fought on for a while longer, with the Lannister forces being pushed steadily back, back down the streets and alleys that fed into the courtyard. The attacking forces took the brief respite to regroup and regain their breath. Guards were stationed at the entrances to the courtyard to keep watch for any attacks by the enemy.

Jaime found the Hound once more, whose blade and armour were covered in blood. As Clegane reached down and ripped the cloak off the Queenguard he had killed and used it to clean the gore from his blade, Jaime heard a commotion from the other side of the courtyard.

Turning away he saw several Northern men holding a couple of men between them, their weapons pointed at them, with Jon raising his hands to calm them. Jaime made his way over, his curiosity getting the better of him. As he stepped over the corpses littering the cobblestones, he heard Jon’s words find its way to him.

“So, you are Lord Varys’ spies?” he said, waving his hand for the Northmen to release them. “What have you learnt?”

As Jaime came to a halt a few steps behind Jon, he saw one of the spies raise his head, revealing the large scar over his left eye.

“Cersei has had the pyromancers working day and night for the past few weeks,” the man said urgently. “To create as much wildfire as possible. Several of them had collapsed from exhaustion and were executed for not ‘showing enough loyalty to the crown’.”

Jaime shook his head at this, completely sickened by the depths of his sister’s madness.

_She’s becoming more like Aerys every day,_ he thought.

“How much wildfire do they have?” Jon asked, and Jaime could hear a note of fear in his voice.

“Enough to destroy the city, if she chooses to.”

A shiver run down Jaime’s spine, his breath hitching in his throat.

_No. Not again._

“Where has she stored it?” he interrupted loudly, his fear and urgency clear in his voice.

Every eye turned to look at him in confusion, but Jaime didn’t care. The spy paused for a moment, obviously taken aback by the interruption, and Jaime, his temper rising, took a step forward.

“Where has Cersei hidden the wildfire?” he barked angrily.

“Most of it is hidden in along the main streets of the city. The Street of the Steel, the Street of Sister. And then there is a _lot_ in the Dragonpit and in the tunnels under the Red Keep.”

Keeping them in the Dragonpit made sense to Jaime, as he was sure that there was nothing she would want more than to destroy a landmark so important to House Targaryen, even if it had fallen into disrepair.

However, it was the caches under the Red Keep that worried Jaime the most, the fear in his gut building.

“The ones in the Red Keep,” Jaime said urgently, turning to Jon. “We’ll deal with them on our way to the Mountain.”

“How?” Jon asked. “The tunnels under the keep must be massive. How can you know where they will be?”

“I have an idea of where they will be,” Jaime replied, before turning to the spy to confirm his suspicion.

“She’s put them in with the dragon skulls, hasn’t she?”

The spy looked confused and surprised by his guess, before nodding in confirmation. Jaime sighed deeply, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Cersei hates Daenerys and her family,” Jaime explained, turning back to them. “And in this situation, facing her own death, Cersei will want to destroy something so precious to her.

“Daenerys won’t know, but Cersei will die knowing that she has.”

“This Queen is one crazy cunt,” the red headed Wildling grunted, shaking his head in bewilderment.

“No arguments here,” Jaime replied gravely, before meeting Jon’s eyes once more. “Clegane and I will deal with the wildfire in the keep.”

“Will we really?” the Hound rasped from behind Jaime.

A little surprised by his voice, having not heard him approach, Jaime turned to face him. He saw that while the Hound was looking a little irritated, likely at them having to make a diversion from his goal of fighting his brother, there was also a hint of fear in his expression, which the man was trying desperately to hide.

“If we don’t deal with the wildfire, then the keep could be destroyed and everyone inside incinerated, including you.”

At this the look of fear became more pronounced on the man’s burned face.

While he hadn’t been the capital at the time, Jaime had heard the stories of the Battle of Blackwater, of how Tyrion had set the bay alight with wildfire to destroy the fleet of Stannis Baratheon. Tyrion had told him of how the Hound had fled the city after the explosion, after insulting Joffrey to his face.

_I imagine his fear of fire only got worse after that,_ Jaime thought.

“Lannister,” came Jon’s voice.

As Jaime tuned to meet the man’s eye once more, he was struck by the similarity between him and his father, with the stoic expression being almost identical to that of Eddard Stark.

“Deal with the wildfire under the keep, and we’ll deal with the rest.”

Jaime nodded in understanding and turned back to the Hound, pausing for a moment to see his reaction. After looking conflicted for a moment, the man clearly wrestling between his desire to cleave his brother’s head from his shoulders and his fear of fire, the Hound nodded jerkily, grunting disapprovingly.

At that moment a shout of warning came from their line of men. Turning towards the sound, Jaime saw that another wave of Lannister men were attacking their line, coming from the direction of the Dragonpit. As Jon and the others rushed over to meet the threat and reinforce their men, Jaime and the Hound used the distraction and headed in the other direction, towards the ruins of the Sept of Baelor.

They would circle around, using many of the back roads and alleyways to avoid the larger patrols of men, before heading down to the beaches beneath the keep and heading into the tunnels there. When he and Bronn had been guiding thieves to the food stores that Cersei had hoarded from the populace, Jaime had become quite familiar with the layout of the tunnels beneath the keep, knowing all the entrances.

As they were about to move out of sight, Jaime turned back to look at the fight. The red-haired wildling was fighting alongside Jorah Mormont, both facing opponents garbed in crimson Lannister armour. Meanwhile the Stark king was facing a member of the Queenguard, and he had likely already dealt a heavy blow as the guard’s left arm was hanging limply by his side.

Jaime involuntarily nodded a little in approval, begrudgingly impressed by the man’s skill with a blade. He was by no means the greatest swordsman who had ever lived, but he was clearly formidable in battle. Jaime turned and followed the Hound in hurrying down a narrow alleyway, the sound of their boots on the cobbles ringing off the walls on either side of them.

They hurried through the streets, staying as far from the patrols as they could, as they headed in the direction of the Dragonpit. They could get away with being noticed from a distance, as Jaime was still wearing the same armour as their foes.

To Jaime’s relief, there hadn’t been any sign of another wildfire explosion from anywhere in the city. While he was half convinced that many of the men guarding the caches wouldn’t follow their orders to kill themselves with the explosion, he knew that there would be enough men that would only be too happy to follow their orders, thinking that it would gain some honour or recognition for themselves and their family.

They soon reached the location of where the Sept of Baelor had once stood. Where there had once been the centre of the Faith of the Seven, a large and historic sept, there was now merely a giant crater in the cityscape, like a gaping wound. The sight of the ruins caused Jaime to feel a rush of anger towards Cersei and Qyburn, her sycophantic shadow.

Gritting his teeth and curling his hand around the hilt of his blade, Jaime ran onwards.

The two of them ran onwards, through Muddy Way. They were getting closer to the keep now, and so the guard presence grew. Jaime took the lead here, taking the Hound through a few of the smuggling routes that he had learnt from Bronn and his allies, going through abandoned houses and forgotten sewer tunnels.

The two of them came to a wide street that they would have to cross, and Jaime didn’t have any hidden routes to get them across it. The Hound was clearly anxious to be across it, shifting restlessly.

“Oh, fuck this!” the Hound grunted, as he began to make his move.

“Wait!” Jaime growled, grabbing the man’s arm to halt him.

As he had moved, a small patrol of Lannister soldiers had rounded the corner and begun to make their way up the street, and if the Hound had made his move then he would have been spotted.

Jaime and the Hound backed up down the alleyway, flattening themselves against the walls. As the sounds of the approaching soldiers grew louder, Jaime instinctively tried to hide himself even more, this time leaning into a narrow doorway that was almost hidden in the dirty and darkened walls.

As the soldiers began to march past the opening to the alley, Jaime looked over to the Hound, who had lowered himself down onto one knee and was leaning against the wall. By the way that he was clenching his hand around the hilt of his large sword, Jaime could tell that he was considering simply running out and slaughtering them all.

Luckily the small squad passed by them before the urge could take hold. Once the sound of stamping boots had receded, Jaime made his way slowly forward and peeked his head out to look up and down the street.

“Oh shit!” he sighed, before leaning back into the alleyway and looking towards the Hound.

“What?” Clegane asked him, sounding irritated.

“There’s still a small patrol out there,” Jaime replied, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Five men are keeping guard over the road.”

“Not for long,” the Hound grunted, before barging past Jaime and pulling his sword from its sheath and charging into the street.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Jaime exclaimed, before following him, drawing his own blade.

By the time that Jaime caught up with him two of the men already lay dead, one missing his head and other in two pieces, cut in half through his waist. The Hound was engaging another in combat, while another was struggling to remove his sword from its sheath, panicking at the sight of the carnage that Clegane was dealing.

The fifth man was attempting to escape, clearly attempting to send word to get reinforcements. He was attempting to run in the opposite direction from where Clegane was, taking him straight past where Jaime, unbeknownst to the escaping man, was entering the street.

Jaime slashed out with his sword and severed the fleeing man’s leg, causing him to fall to the ground, screaming in agony and blood spurting onto the stones. Jaime then slashed his throat, silencing the man’s cries.

He looked back up to the skirmish and saw that the final man had finally extracted his sword from its place on his belt. He was rushing towards Jaime, clearly feeling like he had a better chance against him than against Clegane. Jaime parried the man’s wild swing, seeing a look of frantic desperation on his face.

Jaime pushed the man’s blade aside before stabbing his own into the man’s chest, his sword piercing through the man’s plate. However, as the man fell, his body twisted, wrenching his blade from his grip.

Jaime cursed, before looking over in time to see the Hound raise his sword and bring it down onto the top of his enemy’s head, splitting it in two all the way down to the bridge of his nose.

Exhaling in relief that they had managed to evade any potential reinforcements, Jaime placed his foot on the man’s chest to brace him, before pulling his sword out, the metals of the sword and armour scraping against each other.

The Hound made his way over to Jaime, only pausing to wipe the blood from his blade on the cloak of one of the slain Lannisters. Jaime did the same with his own, before placing it back in its sheath.

The two of them headed back off on their way, soon coming to a small staircase cut into the cliff face. As they made their way down, their path illuminated by the flickering lights from the blazing wreckages on the bay, Jaime found his attention being grabbed by the battle. The sight of the three dragons diving upon the ships, leaving an inferno in their wake, filled him with a sense of both wonderment and dread.

They reached the bottom of the stone staircase and hurried along the beach, occasionally stumbling slightly on the sand, and quickly fell into the shadow of the Red Keep, towering high above them on the cliffs.

Once they reached the cliff face, they entered the tunnel entrance, hewn into the rock face and disguised from onlooking eyes by the boulders and overhanging rocks from the craggy cliff face. Sliding a little on the slick seaweed that covered the floor, Jaime led the way down the tunnel. He knew that they had arrived at the opportune time, as this opening section of the tunnel was often mostly underwater when the tide had come in.

Soon the slick rock walls of this tunnel met the brick walls of the catacombs, and the small amount of light that reached this far down from the mouth of the tunnel faded into inky blackness. Jaime began to root around the blackness, especially high up in the walls, where there was a small ledge at the wall’s height.

“What the fuck are you doing?” came the Hound’s raspy growl.

“There should be a small stash of torches here somewhere,” Jaime explained, as he continued to root around. “Some were left over when the thieves made off with Cersei’s food stores.”

“Well hurry up! We’re wasting time!”

“Do you want to stumble around in the fucking dark?” Jaime replied angrily. “We’d waste more time doing that!”

Jaime heard the Hound grunt in response and knew that he was begrudgingly agreeing with his logic.  

Finally, Jaime found the torches, kept up high to escape any damp or water that managed to find its way this far into the tunnels. After a few moments of attempting to light them, Jaime managed to get them both alight, their flickering light illuminated their surroundings.

After passing one to Clegane, Jaime hurried off down the corridor, taking the path that he knew would end up near the room where the dragon skulls were stored. Their footsteps echoed around the enclosed space, the torch light dancing off the curving ceiling. 

After a few minutes of running, they came to another tunnel entrance, which Jaime knew led into the basements of the keep. After putting out his torch, and hearing the Hound following suit behind him, Jaime headed through the opening. After gaining his bearings, he headed off towards the storage room.

Now that he was inside the keep, the sounds of the battle, while still audible, were muffled by the thick stone walls, giving the interior a feeling of separation from the fighting outside.

Stopping at every corner to check for guards ahead, the two of them snuck through the tunnels, managing to avoid a pair of patrolling guards, that Jaime was able to restrain the Hound from attacking.

Before long they reached the door that lead to where the dragon skulls, and the wildfire, was located. Before Jaime could make a plan, the Hound pushed past him into the room, drawing his blade and yelling loudly to get their attention.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Jaime shouted, before following him inside.

Taking in the room quickly, he saw that several barrels had been placed into the mouth of Balerion the Dread’s skull, with dozens more spread around the room, their green contents leaking out and pooling onto the floor. There wasn’t a large squad of men protecting it, numbering only eight men, but this wasn’t strange or unusual to Jaime. This cache of wildfire was as a final resort, rather than as a part of their battle strategy.

Regardless of Cersei’s rage and contempt for Daenerys, Jaime knew that she had no intention to die if she could help it.

The Hound had gained the attention of half of them, with the others still shocked by his sudden arrival. Seizing the moment of distraction, Jaime raced over to the skull to keep them from getting to the barrels. Jaime stood with his back to the skull, his sword ready in his hand.

He watched incredulously at the feral savagery with which the Hound was dispatching the Lannister guards. As Jaime watched he killed two men, removing one of their sword arms followed by his head, before disembowelling the second, leaving a pool of blood and body parts in his wake. He then swung his sword at a third, cleaving a massive gash into the man’s helmet, causing blood to spurt from it.

Three of the soldiers broke away and rushed towards Jaime, who raised his sword to meet them. Two of them were coming on his right, and they were the closer to him, with the third hanging back on his left.

The man closest swung his sword at Jaime, which he parried into the path of the next solider who was coming around the outside to get at him, causing him to back up a step to avoid the sword. Jaime gave the first man a shove and pushed him into his companion, causing the two of them to clash into each other and fall to the floor.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jaime saw that the third man had reached him and had thrust his sword towards him. He side stepped the blow, the edge of the blade brushing against the sleeve of his armour, before slashing across the man’s face, taking out both of his eyes. The man dropped his sword and fell to the ground, clutching at his bleeding eyes, screaming in pain.

Jaime finished him off with a quick stab to the neck, with the sound of his cries of agony being replaced by the clashing of swords and the battle cries of the Hound and his foes. Looking over to him quickly before he returned his attention to the two soldiers who were picking themselves up from the floor, Jaime saw that the Hound was stood amid a pile of corpses and body parts, now engaging the last two soldiers.

One of the men was now on his feet and rushing towards him. Jaime ducked under the swing and slashed out with his own blade as the man passed by him, cutting into the man’s knee. He quickly finished off the second man, who was still rising to his feet, by stabbing through the man’s throat, before turning around just in time to block another swing.

The blades locked together as the two of them began to push against each other, trying to create space between them and gain the upper hand. Struck by an idea, Jaime pushed against the blade even more. When the soldier began to push back himself, to not lose ground to him, Jaime pulled his blade away, causing the Lannister soldier to fall forward in surprise.

Jaime slashed out at his neck, his sword making it halfway before getting stuck, not quite enough to take off the man’s head. His blade was freed when the corpse dropped to the ground and it was ripped from his neck, sending another spurt of blood onto the stone floor.

Breathing heavily, Jaime looked over to see that the Hound had defeated his enemies too, although it seemed to have taken him much less effort to do so, with him barely out of breath.

He has lost count of the times that he had cursed the loss of his right hand since it had happened, and now he did so once more.

_If I still had my sword hand, these men wouldn’t have been an issue,_ he thought angrily, as he made his way over to the barrels inside the skeletal dragon’s maw.

It was only now, as he took them in and all the others spread throughout the room, that he realised just how much of it there was. From a quick count, he could see at least twenty barrels of it, and that wasn’t counting any of them in the corners out of his eyeline.

_More than enough to destroy the foundations of the keep, and for it to collapse,_ Jaime realised in shock.

“Your sister has had those fire loving cunts working hard,” the Hound growled, and Jaime could hear the unease in his voice.

He turned to the man, and saw him looking around the room, looking incredibly uneasy as he regarded the small pools of the explosive liquid. After a moment, Jaime saw him straighten up slightly and turn back towards the door.

“Let’s go kill my brother,” he said, crossing the floor quickly.

“And anyone else who could give the order for these things to be set alight,” Jaime added, before joining him.

The two of them made their way through the keep, both immediately and without say a word to each other began making their way to the one place that they knew their targets would be.

The Throne Room.

They went swiftly and silently through the halls, managing to circle around behind the patrols that they came across, before killing them as quietly as they could, to prevent anyone managing to get to the skull room, and its deadly contents.

After a few minutes they found their way to a door leading to the Throne Room, that would bring them out behind the throne, allowing them to sneak out behind them. However, there was one final guard in their way.

Wearing the helmets of one of the slain guards, and hiding his golden hand behind his back, Jaime walked up to the guard, who was unsuspecting of anything, given that Jaime was still wearing Lannister armour. While he was distracted, the Hound circled around and snuck down the passageway that connected to it and up alongside him, before rushing forward and stabbing him in the neck.

As the Hound dragged the body away from the door, Jaime removed the helmet and threw it to one side. While it would offer him extra protection against whatever was on the other side of the door, Jaime wanted Cersei to see his face, for her to know who it was attacking.

Jaime and the Hound made it to the door at the same time and shared a look.

“You ready?” Jaime asked quietly, redoubling the grip on his sword.

“Of course, I am,” the Hound replied, sounding irritated. “Let’s go.”

Jaime opened the door quietly, urging the Hound to stay silent and to not charge ahead.

He was surprised when they entered to see that the hall was largely deserted. He had expected to see guardsmen lining the walls ready to cut them to ribbons before they could accomplish their task. The only people in the room were stood around the throne.

Jaime could make out his sister’s blonde hair as she sat on the throne, a wine goblet in hand. On one side of her was the titanic form of the Mountain, his face as ever remining covered, and Ilyn Payne. And on the other, the side closest to them, was Qyburn, garbed as ever in his black robe.

The sight of the maester caused a rush of anger and hatred to flood through Jaime, causing him to rush towards him, forgetting the caution that he had tried to instil in the Hound.

“Qyburn!” Jaime shouted, raising his sword.

He saw all heads turn towards him at his words, with Qyburn turning towards him, the maester’s eyes widening in shock and fear, mouth falling open.

Jaime thrust his sword through Qyburn’s stomach and out of his back, feeling the man fall against him, his head onto his shoulder.

“I told you that I would have your life, maester,” Jaime whispered savagely into his ear.

Jaime pulled his sword free, blood spurting from the wound and Qyburn wailing in agony, before swinging with all his strength.

This time there was no trouble.

His blade sliced through the man’s sinewy neck with no resistance. Jaime felt a rush of savage satisfaction at seeing the man’s head fall from his shoulders, before rolling across the floor, his body slumping into a heap at his feet.

Cersei’s scream filled Jaime’s ears and he turned to the source. She was sat on the throne, her crown perched atop her head, screaming at the headless corpse of her closet advisor. He saw her wine glass fall to the ground and shatter, its dark red contents mixing with the blood on the steps to her throne.

On the other side of the throne, Jaime saw her two protectors draw their swords, and he turned to face them. From beside him, Jaime heard the Hound roar with rage and rush towards his brother, their giant swords clashing. Ilyn Payne made his way around the throne, his own sword drawn.

Jaime deflected and parried the executioner’s strikes, but he could already see Payne’s superior sword skills compared to the other soldiers he had faced. Once more cursing the loss of his right hand, Jaime continued to defend himself against the older man’s skilled assault.

A loud roar and the shearing of metal from across the room drew every eye, including Jaime and Payne’s. The Hound had delivered a vicious blow to his brother’s chest, cutting a great hole in the front of his armour.

But there was no blood.

The blow, which would have killed a normal man, didn’t seem to faze the giant, who kept up his furious attack on the Hound. Jaime could see that the blows being rained down on each of them would be enough to disarm any normal man from the sheer force. However, both of the Cleganes were blocking these blows without even taking a step back from them.

Payne recovered from the moment of distraction quickly than Jaime did. Despite Jaime turning quickly, and attempting to ready himself, Ilyn Payne disarmed him, his sword clattering to the floor. Before he could do anything in response, the executioner delivered a heavy blow to the face with the pommel of his sword, knocking Jaime to the floor.

Spitting out a mouthful of blood, he felt a rush of helplessness at his predicament and anger at himself. He had allowed himself to be distracted for a fraction longer than Payne and it would be the end of him.

“Ser Ilyn!” came Cersei’s voice, far shriller than Jaime remembered it. “Keep my brother retrained. I want the whole city to see him lose his head. For them to know what happens to those who defy me.”

He looked out the throne room and remembered one of the last times he had been in this room, when he had witnessed Bronn’s head being ripped from his body and thrown at his feet.

Thinking of Bronn brought back another memory. Of when he and Bronn had been retraining Jaime’s weaker hand, and Bronn had smashed him in the face with his own hand.

It gave Jaime an idea.

As the executioner grabbed the scruff of Jaime’s neck and hauled him to his feet, Jaime spun around and swung his golden hand at the man’s face. It smashed in the side of his face with significant force, which jarred along Jaime’s arm. Payne’s head snapped back, an unintelligible grunt coming from the elder man.

Jaime reached out and wrenched his sword from the man’s now slackened grip. Pushing Payne back and away from him, breaking the man’s loosened hold on his neck, Jaime thrust the sword through the man’s chest.

As the man fell to the floor, Jaime took a step towards the throne, breathing heavily. He raised the dripping sword and directed it towards Cersei, who was looking at him with hatred and anger burning in her eyes.

“Don’t try and run,” Jaime said, meeting her gaze.

He needed have said anything, as she had shown no signs of attempting to escape, despite the fact that one of her protectors was dead and the other was locked in a furious duel.

As one, the twins looked over to the battle between the Cleganes.

The two brothers still looked evenly matched, striking and blocking the same heavy blows. However, Jaime knew that the Hound was at a disadvantage. He would eventually tire, whereas the Mountain would not, thanks to the experiments that Qyburn had done on him.

The Hound then raised his blade above his head and, taking a step forward, swung it down in arc, and Jaime could tell that there was enough force in the swing to cut a man in half.

However, the blow didn’t make contact.

The Mountain dodged the blow and swung his own blade, slashing open the Hound’s shoulder, causing a gush of blood to explode from the wound. The Hound roared in pain and lashed out with his sword once more, delivering another heavy blow to his brother’s suit of armour, this time cutting into the man’s leg.

The two of them circled each other, looking for an opening. The Mountain remained unfazed by the two serious injuries that he had already received and the Hound simply glared back at him, with a hand pressed to the deep wound in his shoulder.

“Come on, Clegane,” Jaime whispered through gritted teeth.

As if spurred on by his words, the Mountain thrust forward once more, his sword aiming directly for the Hound’s chest. This time it was the Hound’s turn to evade the blow, but his return strike crashed into his brother’s helm, knocking it from his head and across the room.

Jaime gasped in horror at the sight. He hadn’t seen Gregor Clegane’s face since the Trial by Combat with Oberyn Martell, and now that he had, he was glad he hadn’t before.

His eyes were pure black, with no break to show where the colour had once been. His skin was a deep purple colour, with deep puckering and sunken areas in his face, his veins visible through his skin.

“Fuck!” Jaime gasped, before looking at Qyburn’s headless corpse.

The maester had said that he had saved the man, but he hadn’t explained just what he had done or the effect that whatever he had done had had on the former knight.

He didn’t look alive. He looked like a corpse, risen from death.

The Hound looked as shocked as Jaime did, looking at the grisly visage of his brother in horror. After looking stunned for a moment, his expression changed back to one of grim determination and focus.

The two brothers resumed their duel, blades clashing against each other once more. Although Jaime could see that the Hound was being far more defensive now, content to simply parry his brother’s strikes and wait for an opening, likely due to his injury and growing fatigue.

After a few moments of back and forth, the Mountain lunged forward once more and this time the Hound didn’t parry or dodge. He sidestepped the blow before slashing upwards, severing the Mountain’s sword arm at the elbow. The arm and sword fell to the group, the steel clattering against the stones.

Again, there was no blood, no sign of pain from the Mountain. He merely turned in silence towards his opponent, reaching down to pick up his sword once more. He didn’t get a chance, with his other arm being severed too, falling to the ground next to the first.

Jaime exhaled in relief at this, knowing that without his arms, the Mountain wouldn’t pose a threat to the Hound. But until the creature that had been Gregor Clegane was dead, Jaime wouldn’t relax fully.

Now that both of her protectors were dealt with, Jaime took a step closer to Cersei, making sure that his sword remained pointed at her, as the two of them remained transfixed by the two brothers fighting.

The Hound threw his sword to the floor with a growl, before reached out and grabbing hold of the Mountain by the neck and face, and began to drag him across the hall, towards one of the giant torch sconces. Jaime was surprised by this, given the Hound’s notorious hatred of fire.

Once he reached it, the Hound spun his brother around to face him, keeping one hand at his throat and the other at the back of his head. There was a moment of silence, where he just glared at him, his burned face twisted by hatred.

“Goodbye, _brother_ ,” the Hound snarled……

And pushed his brother’s face into the fire.

It didn’t take long for the smell of burning flesh to reach his nose, and Jaime was reminded of the times where the Mad King had roasted his enemies alive in his hall, Rickard and Brandon Stark among them. However, this time there were no screams of pain, no cries for clemency. Only the grunts of the Hound as he kept pushing his brother’s head into the sconce and the crackling of the flames within it.

Once the Mountain’s movements slowed to mere twitches, the Hound pulled him from the fire and threw him to the floor, landing on his back with his burned face looking up, its flesh bubbling and crackling.

The Hound pulled one of the burning logs from the sconce, and Jaime could see a slight tremble in his arm and his eyes darting to it with a look of worry.

_Still scared of it,_ Jaime thought, as he watched him advance on the smoking form on the floor. _But his hatred of his brother is stronger._

When he reached the Mountain, the Hound bent down and opened his mouth with one hand, before pushing the burning log into his mouth with the other. Smoke began to billow from the mouth, nose and ears, while the head itself began to collapse, the melting flesh not keeping the shape any longer.

“Fuck!” Jaime exclaimed, looking away from the smouldering body and towards the Hound. “I knew you hated your brother, but I didn’t know it was this much.”

The Hound didn’t say anything in response, merely shrugging off his armour to offer some freedom for his damaged shoulder, before sitting himself on the floor.

“She got any wine over there?” he asked, throwing his armour to one side.

Before Jaime could do anything more than shake his head in exasperation, the doors to the hall opened. Jon Stark and Daenerys Targaryen walked in, flanked by Jorah Mormont and Jon’s wildling ally. Sensing another attempt to move, Jaime took another step towards his sister, who had stiffened up at the sight of Daenerys.

The foursome walked through the hall until they reached the Mountain’s smoking corpse, where they paused for a moment. Jaime then saw Jon turn to the Hound.

“When you kill someone, you make sure, don’t you?”

Again, the Hound didn’t respond, merely grunting slightly as he stretched his wounded shoulder.

The four then carried on walking and reached the throne. As they got closer, Jaime could see Daenerys’ windswept hair from her flying on her dragon, as well as the blood and sweat covering the others.

When they reached the foot of the stairs, Jaime saw Jon grab Daenerys’ wrist gently.

“Don’t get too close,” he warned her.

The Targaryen nodded her understanding to him and remained at the base of the stairs, her hands folded in front of her and looking up at Cersei.

“You’ve lost, Cersei,” Daenerys said steely. “Surrender and you will be given a trial, where you can explain your actions and be judged accordingly.”

There was a moment of silence after these words, which seemed to stretch on forever.

“Fuck you, Dragon Whore!” Cersei spat, before lunging forward at Daenerys, pulling a knife from her sleeve.

Jon, Jaime and Jorah all moved at the same time.

Jon pulled Daenerys back from Cersei’s path, placing himself in front of her and beginning to pull his blade.

Jorah too pulled his sword from its sheath and took a step forward, standing shoulder to shoulder with Jon, blocking Daenerys from her.

Jaime however, only vaguely realised what they were doing.

He took a few steps forward and put his sword in Cersei’s back. Just as he done the Mad King all those years ago.

Cersei fell to the floor, his sword pulling free from her body. She landed on her back and lay there, looking up at him.

She began to choke as blood began to fill her airway. Her choking and gargling grew louder and more intense, with spurts of blood flying from her mouth as she coughed, her hands scrambling at her throat, trying to relieve the pressure on her airway. And still she didn’t look away from him, her emerald eyes fixed on his own as she choked to death on her own blood.

As Jaime watched his sister die on the floor of the Throne room, it wasn’t her choking and gasping breaths that he heard.

It was the Mad King.

“ _Burn them all!”_ Jaime heard, as loud as he had those years previous. “ _Burn them all!”_

Two monarchs. Years apart. Both dead at this hand, in this very room, in the exact same way.

Kingslayer. The title he had been given for his previous act.

Now a Queenslayer. And a Kinslayer.

Jaime came back to his senses and looked down at Cersei once more, and was met by her glassy gaze, her body still and unmoving, her mouth and chin stained crimson with her blood.

Feeling numb, Jaime looked up at Daenerys, and saw her and her companions looking at him, their expressions ranging from shock to concern.

“You’ve won, Queen Daenerys,” Jaime said, throwing his sword down on the floor. “King’s Landing, and the Seven Kingdoms, are yours.”

Credit to my friend revesle for the art and for teaching me how to put images through this confusing mess


	43. Bran IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go everyone.   
> Been a pain in the arse to write this chapter, as writer's block had a serious hold on me for it. But Hope you all enjoy it.  
> Next up will be a Daenerys chapter

 

Bran

 

Bran stood at the edge of a large circular cave, great stalactites hanging from the ceiling like icy spears. Being in a vision, he couldn’t feel the cold that he knew would be biting into him and chilling his blood if he had been here in person and his breath didn’t rise like smoke in front of him.

He cast his eyes around the cave and his eyes fell upon a large rock plinth in the centre. There was a covering of snow atop it, which had drifted down from small hole in the ceiling of the cave, a single shaft of light illuminating the cave. Bran saw that nestled among the snow, there was an object.

His curiosity getting the better of him, Bran began to make his way across the cave to see what it was, his footsteps making no sound or disturbance on the snow.

He stopped dead however when he heard the sound of very real footsteps on the snow, coming from a tunnel leading to the cave. Despite knowing that whoever it was wouldn’t be able to see him at all, Bran retreated back to stand with his back against the wall, at the furthest point from the entrance.

After a moment of waiting, hearing the crunching of snow heralding their arrival, two White Walkers entered the cave, causing Bran to shrink back against the wall even more. Their blue and emotionless eyes were cast around the room several times, and neither of them reacted to Bran’s presence in the slightest.

He let out a relieved breath, realising with relief that they wouldn’t be able to touch him nor see him.

However, his relief flooded from his body, to be replaced by cold terror as the Night King entered the cave. It was clearly him, with the small icy spikes protruding from his head, as well the way that the other Walkers clearly deferred to him.

Despite Bran’s worst fears, the leader of the Walkers didn’t acknowledge Bran’s presence, his eyes merely fixed on the snowy plinth in the centre of the cave and began to walk towards it. Bran leaned back further into the wall, readying him to force himself awake if needed.

The Night King reached the plinth and came to a halt, looking at the object that was half obscured by the covering of snow. He reached out one of his blue, dead hands and grasped hold of it, lifting it from the snow. Now that he could see it, Bran recognised it as a large horn, easily as long and wide that Bran could out most of his arm inside it.

Holding the horn in both of his hands for a money, the Night King regarded it with an impassive, unreadable expression… before raising his head to meet Bran’s eye.

Ban’s gasped in surprise, despite having half expected this.

A slight smirk appeared on the Night King’s icy mouth, before looking back down at the horn. Before the White Walker’s leader could do anything else, Bran focused all of his energy onto forcing himself awake, not wanting to get another of the Night King’s marks upon him.

After a moment’s effort, the cave around him faded away and Bran jerked awake in his bunk. Despite the cold weather, Bran was soaked in sweat, feeling the sheet of the bed sticking to his arms. Breathing heavily, Bran looked to his right, and saw Meera facing him, still fast asleep.

Despite his brain churning with questions about what he had just seen, Bran couldn’t help a smile from crossing his face as he saw her sleeping peacefully beside him.

His breathing and the pounding of his heart beginning to slow, Bran began to think over the questions that was swirling through his brain.

_What was that horn? And what did the Night King want with it?_

Bran heard Meera murmur and shift a little and looked over to her. Still fast asleep, Bran felt her reach out and grasp hold of his hand. Smiling and gripping her hand back, Bran looked back up at the ceiling of his room, and allowed the questions of his vision to swirl back through his mind once more.

*

That morning after breaking their fast, Bran and Meera headed towards the maester’s tower, with her pushing him in his wheeled chair.

As soon as she had awoken, Meera had noticed the look of preoccupation on his face and had asked him about his vision. Bran remembered how her expression had changed from interest and curiosity to one of interest.

The two of them had spent their time since debating what the horn could be and what need the Night King could have for it. When neither of them could think of anything, they decided to go to Wolkan’s chambers, to peruse though the stacked shelves there, for any hint of what it could be.

When they reached the tower, a member of the Stark guard carried Bran up the narrow staircase while another stayed at the bottom with his chair. Once they reached the maester’s chamber, the man carried Bran over to a table and placed him in a chair.

“Thank you,” Bran said gratefully to the man, who bowed his head in response before backing from the room, leaving Bran and Meera alone.

“Where shall we start?” Meera asked, looking around the room.

“Anything that deals with the legends surrounding the White Walkers, or North of the Wall,” Bran replied, he too looking at the stacked bookshelves, wondering where their answers could be.

The two of the poured over the books for a couple of hours, finding out nothing that could have been the object that Bran had seen.

“Any luck?” Bran asked, for what must have been the hundredth time since they’d arrived.

“No,” Meera replied patiently, just as she had every time he’d asked.

Bran sighed in disappointment and slammed shut yet another tome that had proven useless to them. He buried his head in his hands, and tried to remember everything from his visions, to see if something would come back to him.

“Prince Bran,” came a voice from behind him, making him jump. “Good day to you.”

Bran turned to see who was speaking and saw that Wolkan had entered the room, carrying an armful of books and parchment.

“Maester Wolkan,” Bran replied, bowing his head politely, before gesturing to the book covered table. “I apologise for the mess.”

“Not at all, my Prince,” Wolkan said, shaking his head as he placed the books and parchment on his desk. “My library is yours to use whenever you need it. May I be of assistance?”

Bran and Meera shared a quick look, one of interest but also trepidation. While Wolkan’s knowledge of the library would speed up their search, he was unaware of Bran’s visions and Bran was unsure if he wanted to share this with him.

“I think so,” Meera said suddenly, holding Bran’s gaze for a moment before turning to Wolkan.

Bran, realising that Meera must have a plan, readied himself to play along.

“Bran and I had been talking, and we remembered one of the Free Folk telling us a story about some kind of horn, and we were trying to remember what it was.”

“Ah I see,” Wolkan said, looking thoughtful for a moment before walking off to one of the bookshelves. “I’m sure I have something.”

Bran met Meera’s eye once more and nodded thankfully to her, impressed by her quick thinking in coming up with this plan.

There was silence in the room for a while, the only sounds being Wolkan removing books from their places on the shelves and then the rustling of pages as he quickly skimmed through their pages for anything similar to what they had said. Meanwhile, Bran and Meera continued to look through the books still left on their table.

“Ah!” Wolkan exclaimed, walking over to the table, his finger pressed to the page. “Here we are. This could be it.”    

Bran and Meera pushed the books in front of them away, and turned towards him. A feeling of excitement and anticipation was brewing in his stomach, hopeful that they might be able to unravel the mystery of his vision.

“This passage tells the story of Joramun, of how he blew the Horn of Winter and woke the giants from the earth.”

Bran saw Meera look at him, raising her eyebrows expectantly, but his mind was on something else.

“Old Nan,” Bran whispered.

“Pardon, Prince Bran?” Wolkan asked, sounding confused and concerned.

“She was an old servant woman who looked after us all when we were children,” Bran explained, feeling sad. “She used to tell us stories all the time. Of the Long Night, and the Last Hero. Loads of different ones. One of them was of Joramun and his Horn.”

Wolkan and Meera fell into a respectful silence at this, but Bran’s mind continued to race. He wondered if this could be the horn he had witnessed the Night King getting his hands on in his vision.

_But the giants are already awake,_ Bran thought, confused. _Jon told us how two of them had attacked the wall alongside Mance. If there were any north of the Wall, then the Night King had likely already found them._

So, was it Joramun’s horn that the Night King had found? Or was it something that they had no knowledge of so far?

“I must admit, Prince Bran,” Wolkan said, clearly deep in thought. “Now that this has jogged my memory too, I think that this is the only horn I can recall being mentioned in these tomes. Other than the legends of horns controlling dragons and the like.”

While Bran was momentarily interested in the idea, he quickly dismissed it. Any horns like that would likely be Valyrian in origin, the origin of the dragons, and therefore it is unlikely that any such horns would be north of the Wall.

“Thank you for you aid, Maester Wolkan,” Bran said gratefully. “It is most appreciated.”

“Not at all,” the man replied, bowing slightly. “It is my pleasure.”

“Meera, could you get the guard for me, please?” Bran said, meeting her eye. “I think I’ll practise some archery.”

As Meera nodded and left the room, and Wolkan headed back over to his desk, Bran looked out of the window, at the thinly falling snowflakes, his mind spinning with questions about the horn.

A few hours later, Bran was in the courtyard, practising his archery with Anguy. Under the man’s tutelage, Bran’s skill with a bow on horseback has increased dramatically. He rarely misses a target while stationary and if he is moving, he still manages to hit the target over half the time.

As Bran looked around the courtyard, he saw Arya sparring with Beric and Thoros once more in one corner, with his sister darting in between the two men as she had before. Smiling a little in pride in her skill, he looked around again and saw the captain of the guard speaking to a couple of his men by the gate,

This reminded Bran of the men that they had sent onto Highpoint, that hadn’t been heard of since they had left. This hadn’t done anything to alleviate his worries about the Whitehills, something that he had shared with the captain. The captain had increased the number of patrols in the area surrounding Winterfell and increased the number of guards on duty around the keep.

“Prince Bran!” came a voice over the general noise of the courtyard.

Bran turned towards the source and saw Wolkan hurrying over to him, a piece of parchment in his hand.

“We have received a raven from King’s Landing,” Wolkan said, when he reached Bran and his mount. “From your brother.”

With a feeling of both excitement and trepidation, Bran beckoned over the Stark man who would help him on and off his horse.

“Get Arya too, Wolkan,” Bran said, as the guardsman began to undo the straps holding him in the saddle. “She’ll want to see too.”

After he had been removed from his horse and placed back in his chair, and Arya had joined them, Wolkan handed him the letter.

After reading it quickly, Bran broke into a wide smile and turned to Arya.

“Jon says that they have taken the capital, and that Cersei is dead.”

Arya’s face broke into a matching smile, her relief at Jon’s survival clear.

“Cersei’s dead?” she said, and Bran could hear the happiness and wonderment in her voice.

“Another name off your list,” Bran said, smiling at her.

“How is Jon?” she asked, her smile thinning slightly.

“He’s fine, Arya,” he replied consolingly, before looking back at the letter once more. “He says that they will be staying in King’s Landing for a week or so, to give the men a rest and to establish some order in the city, before they head back up here.”

Bran looked up to see that Arya was looking a lot more reassured, although there was still a note of concern and unease on her face. Bran knew instantly what the problem was and reached out to grip her hand to get her attention.

“I’m sure Gendry is fine too Arya,” Bran whispered reassuringly. “He’s been through a lot, and it’ll take a lot to kill him.”

Arya smiled at him and nodded her thanks, gripping his hand back briefly before walking back over to Beric and Thoros.

Bran watched her go with a smile, before looking back at the letter.

_Good luck, Jon,_ he thought. _See you soon._

*

The following day, Bran and Arya were making their way through Winter Town, Bran mounted on his horse, Arya walking alongside him. They were making sure that the assembled small folk had enough food and warm clothing for the encroaching winter.

As always during the winters, many of the smallfolk in the surrounding area had flocked to Winter Town so that the newly repaired town was full to breaking point. There was a constant air of activity, with people bustling around, skinning game, washing clothes. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and cooking food, with Bran almost becoming overwhelmed by the various scents he was being exposed to.

Bran had stopped his horse in the middle of the town for a while, speaking with various members of the town. He also saw Arya showing Needle to a small group of young children, who all looked amazed and awestruck by the thin blade, with Bran smiling at the sight.

Suddenly the sound of horns from the battlements above them broke through the bustling ambience of Winter Town. Bran spun in the saddle to look up at the battlements, seeing countless others do the same.

“What’s happening?” Bran heard Arya shout, with several others echoing the same question.

“There’s soldiers heading for Winter Town,” one of the look outs shouted back.

“Who are they?” Bran shouted.

“They are carrying the standard of House Whitehill, but there are others there that look different and flying no banners.”

This made a chill go down Bran’s spine. The lack of word back from the men that they had sent to Highpoint had been bothering him for a while, and now his vision from a few weeks ago made sense to him now, where he had seen white hills on the horizon. And here they were, being surrounded by a house that had white hills on their standard.

Bran heard Arya’s voice and turned back to meet his sister’s eyes.

“We need to get everyone inside the keep!” she shouted urgently.

“Do it!” Bran shouted back, as he looked up to the sky, looking for any birds. “I’ll see who is accompanying them.”

“Bran, be careful!” he heard her shout, before running away.

He nodded distractedly, having seen a flock of birds take to the sky, disturbed by the sudden outburst of noise in Winter Town. While Bran felt his horse begin to grow uneasy by the people thundering past it, it was soon clamed when Meera grabbed the reins.

“Quickly, Bran,” she said urgently. “We need to get inside too.”

Bran focused on one of the birds and warged into it.

His vision changed to show the snow fields far below him, with the people below looking tiny as they hurried towards the gates. Bran turned his head away from the keep and towards the approaching force. Feeling his wings beating on either side of him, Bran directed himself down towards them, ignoring the inward bird instinct to flee with the flock away from the danger.

This was something that Bran had gained a greater level of control over, the more and more he had warged. When he had first discovered his abilities, he would often find himself lost in the experience, preferring to spend time as a wolf than as himself. However, as time had gone on he had grown better at resisting the nature of the creature that he was warging into, retaining more of his own instinct and drive.

As he got lower, Bran saw that there were two different types of armour. One of them was distinctively Northern, with the majority of these marching under the Whitehill banner. However, as he got even closer, he recognised the second set. More rugged than the standard Northman armour, he remembered seeing it on the Ironborn invaders who had taken Winterfell those years ago.

While he couldn’t get an accurate count of the numbers, he estimated that there must be at least a few hundred of them. Thinking back, he remembered it was guessed that House Whitehill had approximately four hundred men that they could call upon.

There wasn’t that many men there but Bran guessed that they must have lost some when they managed to break the siege that the combined Unsullied and Northern force had put into place, likely with aid from their new Ironborn allies.

Bran turned in the air, feeling the wing rustle through the feathers on his wings, back towards the keep. He was able to leave the bird and return to his body, when he spotted a second force approaching from the other side.

Increasing his pace, Bran soon was flying past the keep, with the second force coming closer. They were further from Winterfell then the first group, but still quite sizeable. Now that he was nearer the keep Bran saw that he wasn’t the only one that had noticed it, with the sentries atop the battlements shouting out warnings, and the gates surrounding the keep being closed, with only the gate leading to Winter Town remaining open to allow the refugees inside.

Pushing his adopted body to move as quickly as it could, it didn’t take long for Bran to fly over the keep and for him to be to see the second force clearer, and for the banner they were flying under to come into vision.

Bran forced himself from the bird’s body and back into his own.

“It’s the Lannisters!” Bran shouted, twisting his body back to the keep. “The Lannisters are coming from the other side!”

“What?” Arya shouted, from about twenty feet away, Needle drawn. “How could they be here? Jon and Daenerys defeated them!”

“They must have had men on Pyke,” Bran said, turning back in the direction that the force would be coming from. “There is Ironborn with them too.”

“Seven hells,” came a voice from beside him.

Bran turned to see that the Brotherhood without Banners were assembled in Winter Town. Some of their men were guiding the smallfolk into the keep, helping them carry the small children or the elderly. Members such as Beric, Thoros and Anguy were standing alongside the small number of Stark guardsmen, their weapons drawn.

While their numbers paled in comparison to the approaching force, _either_ of them, numbering only roughly eighty men, Bran suspected that it should be enough to buy time for the remaining smallfolk to enter the keep.

“You all right, lad?” Anguy asked him, sounding concerned. “You didn’t look great just now.”

“I’m fine,” Ban replied bluntly, not wishing to explain his abilities right now. “We need to make sure that they get inside safely.”

“Why do you think we’re here?” Thoros said, with a grin.

“We will assist your men so that they can reach the keep,” Beric replied stoically, his seriousness in stark contrast to his ally.

Bran nodded to them in thanks, before turning to Anguy.

“Anguy, where’s my bow?” he asked. “I want to help. As much as I can anyway.”

“Bran?” Meera said, sounding concerned, as she gripped at a spear that she had been given. “Are you sure?”

Bran nodded in response, causing Anguy to smirk in response.

“If you’re sure,” the archer said, before sprinting into the keep, dodging between the throng of people entering the gate.

Bran turned away from the gate and back towards where the Whitehills were coming from, who were still out of sight behind tree cover and hillocks.

A feeling of nervousness and dread was rising within him. While he had been in fights before, such as when they escaped Craster’s Keep or in the battle against the wights when they arrived at the Three Eyed Raven’s cave, they had mostly been a surprise to him, with events happening too fast for him to really feel the fear and dread.

This was different.

It was as if every second lasted minutes, and every minute an hour. Waiting for the enemy to come into view, ready for the fighting and the death to begin.

Looking around, Bran saw that the men were falling under Beric Dondarrion’s command, something that the captain of the guard seemed to have no problem with, with him organising the people entering the castle.

“Here you go, lad,” Anguy said, sounding a little out of breath, pushing Bran’s bow into his hands.

As took it from him, Bran noticed that the archer placed a large handful of arrows into the quiver that had been placed on the side of his saddle once he had begun his lessons with Anguy. Bran felt a little better now that he had his bow in his hand. While he was under no illusions of his capability with a bow while on horseback, Bran wanted to help, rather than sit inside the keep, worrying about Arya and Meera.

“Here they come!” came a shout from the walls above them.

Sure enough, soon the mounted section of the Whitehill army come over the hill. Bran suspected that the majority of the horses were from the men that they had sent to lay siege at Highpoint. Bran guessed that there was about sixty or seventy of them.

“Archers!” Beric called out. “Take position.”

As the archers formed a line, Bran saw that several of them had scrambled up to take position on the roofs of the buildings, to give them a better vantage point from which to fire.

“Come on, lad,” Anguy said, tugging the reins of the horse so that it followed him. “Stick with me.”

Anguy led Bran around to the edge of the town, giving them a clear shot at the approaching cavalry but also so that they could double back slightly to give them a better position once they reached the town.

Bran took a few deep breaths, hoping to slow the furious pounding of his heart, which was thundering so fast that it was almost painful.

“Relax, lad,” Anguy said calmly, as he rubbed his hands together, and flexed his fingers. “If you’re tense you’ll miss more than you hit. Try and stay calm.”

“Easier said than done,” Bran replied, chuckling nervously before taking another few deep breaths.

“I know,” the man replied, before patting him on the arm. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Nock!” came Beric’s voice.

Bran and Anguy took a single arrow from the respective quivers and placed them on the bowstring, with Bran taking a bit longer due to his slightly shaking hands.

Looking up, he saw that the mounted soldiers would soon be within range of their arrows.

“Draw!” came Beric’s voice again.

As Bran was about to draw the bow to his cheek, Anguy reached up and placed a hand on Bran’s arm, gently preventing him from drawing the bow.

“Just like your sister,” Anguy chuckled. “Never hold.”

“Muscles tense up,” Bran said, nodding as he remembered the man’s lessons.

Anguy nodded and smirked a little in response before patting him on the arm once more and turning back to the approaching cavalry. They watched the mounted men approach, their hoofbeats growing loader by the second, the sounds of the riders’ shouts reaching their ears now too.

“Loose!” came the final command.

Aiming their bows, Bran and Anguy pulled the drawstring all the way back to their cheeks and fired. The whistling of arrows and the twang of bowstrings filled the air and the archers all let loose, their small volley of arrows flew towards the Whitehills, like deadly, dark rain.

Their volley made contact, with half a dozen horses falling immediately, with several of them tripping some of their companions behind them, the sound of screaming men and horse accompanying it.

“Loose!” came Beric’s voice again, with Bran so engrossed in what was happening that he completely missed the first two commands.

A second arrow volley followed the first, with them aiming lower now that the remaining cavalry was closer to them. This time even more of the attackers fell, with at least a dozen of their followers tripping on their fallen brethren. After a few more volleys, the number of mounted enemies had dwindled, with even scores of the on-foot soldiers falling to the falling projectiles.

“Come on, Bran,” Anguy said suddenly, gripping the reins of his horse once more. “We’ll re-position to give us a better shot.”

As his horse turned away from the approaching attackers, Bran saw that they would soon be upon them, so he dug in his heels to spur his mount to follow Anguy’s directions more urgently.

The two of them moved to stand at the back of the courtyard, with their back to the gate to Winterfell, which gave them an unbroken view of the courtyard. Bran could see Beric organising the remaining Brotherhood and Stark men, forming a line of spear wielders to held them repel any of the mounted attackers that remain. Bran could just about make out Meera’s bushy hair in between two other spear wielders.

As he watched, Bran saw Arya take her position around the edge of the courtyard, to protect them from the initial charge of the horses. With a flash of grey, Nymeria bounded across the courtyard to join Arya. She lowered herself onto her haunches, and Bran could see even from this far away, that all her fur was bristling.

Bran saw Beric commanding the archers to retreat, and saw him pointing up to the battlements above them. They all turned as one and began to rush toward the gate. Bran turned to Anguy, to ask if he would be joining them.

“I’m not going anywhere, lad,” Anguy said, before Bran could even open his mouth.

Bran merely smiled in response, grateful that the man was stick with him. He turned to watch the archers hurrying into the gate, the crowd entering it beginning to thin now.

_Not much longer,_ Bran thought.

A shout from the courtyard made Bran snap back round to see that the first riders had reached the town. The Whitehill’s depleted line of men smashed into the line of spears, with over half of them falling immediately. Several more fell with a second thrust of the spears, with only a couple of them managing to avoid the spears, galloping around the courtyard.

Nymeria bounded forwards and headed straight towards one of the mounts, knocking the horse over, her strong jaws ripping the animal’s throat out. Its rider screamed in pain as his now dead mount fell down heavily and crushed one of his legs beneath its bulk. His screams increased when Nymeria focused her attention on him, but were quickly silenced as she too began to rip at him.

Bran saw another horse fall to an arrow fired from one of the remaining archers perched atop the roofs, but the rider of this one managed to leap free from the horse before it fell. Bran and Anguy moved in unison, firing arrow towards him, hitting him in the chest and the throat.

He looked back up in time to see another line of cavalry charge in, this time accompanied by around a dozen men on foot. This caused the Brotherhood men and guardsmen to charge out to meet them, Arya among them. However, he saw that Beric and Thoros were hanging back and not joining the charge.

They both stood with their hands against the edge of the blade for a moment, and Bran could see that they both seemed to be muttering something. Suddenly they both ran their hands up their blades… which burst into flame. Bran watched on in shock as the two of them then charged into battle, with the Whitehills looking worried by this development.

Bran had heard the stories of the two of them using burning swords, and even seen it a little during the vision seeing Arya with them, but seeing it in person was something completely different.

They fought on for a while longer, with Nymeria slaying a dozen horses by herself, while Bran and Anguy managed to take down a few more. Beric and Thoros were cutting a flaming swathe through the enemy, with screams and smoke following in their wake. Arya was darting around the battlefield, nimbly dodging the weapons directed towards her, often taking out the downed riders with a single thrust of Needle.

Bran watched as she rolled under a sword being swung towards her head, before thrusting Needle twice into her attacker. Once behind the knee to make him stumble slightly, so that he was down to her height, and then once in the side of the head, killing him.

The archers had reached the battlements and were beginning to rain down more arrows on the remaining soldiers approaching, littering the snowy surrounding with corpses, staining the snow red.

“Everyone’s inside!” Anguy shouted from beside him, as Bran fired an arrow into the back of an Ironborn who was attempting to stab Arya while she was distracted.

“Retreat into the keep!” came Beric’s voice in response. “Spears! Form up inside!”

The spear wielding soldiers followed his orders and hurried towards the keep. Bran was relieved to see that Meera was among them, although he was shocked to see a large streak of blood running down the side of her face from a cut to the side of her face.

A few Whitehill and Ironborn men attempted to follow them. One of them was grabbed by Nymeria, their face soon becoming a bloody and tattered mess. A second was killed by Arya, with Needle being put through the back of his head and out through his mouth. Bran and Anguy opened fire on the rest, with them being joined by another archer perched atop a nearby building. This small group of foes fell, with their bodies being trampled as more of the Stark and Brotherhood men began to run towards the gate.

As Bran turned his horse so that they too could enter Winterfell, he saw that the Lannister forces were coming into view around the side of the keep.

“The Lannisters!” he shouted as loud as he could.

“Get inside!” came several shouts in response.

Bran urged his horse into a gallop, hurrying towards the gate. Their spear wielders had formed a line just inside the gate, with enough space between them to allow their men through but close enough that they would close up when the enemy attacked.

After making it through the line, with a few of them moving out of the way to allow his horse through, Bran wheeled around to face back where they had come from. Their remaining men were sprinting towards the gate, and Bran could make out the two flaming swords among them. He cast his eyes among the running figures urgently, desperately looking for any sign of his sister.

After a few moments of concern, Bran caught sight of Arya sprinting through the gate, her giant grey wolf alongside her. Releasing a sign of relief, Bran nocked another arrow onto his bow and let it loose, hitting a pursuing Whitehill man in the leg, causing him to tumble to the ground and be crushed under the boots of his allies as they thundered towards the gate.

“Shut the gate!” came Beric’s voice.

As the gate began to close, Bran and the other archers kept up firing back at the attackers as they attempted to get inside before they were shut out. In the distance, Bran saw that a few of the archers who had climbed atop the buildings had stayed behind. As he watched one of them was impaled by a thrown spear and fell from the roof, crashing onto the roof of a smaller building beside it.

As the gate shut, Bran saw that while Beric and Thoros had made it inside, their swords still ablaze, so too had around two dozen enemies. While they were hopelessly outnumbered, and had their backs against the gate, with a row of spears ahead of them, the fact that they had got inside was enough to send a ripple of panic throughout the smallfolk, with screams starting behind him. These intruders didn’t last long, with them all falling with a few thrusts from the spear line.

Now that their enemies were defeated or shut away, Bran saw that the fighters all relaxed a little, letting their weapons fall to their sides as they attempted to regain their breath. Both Beric and Thoros stabbed their blades into the ground, and the flames that had been burning along the blade extinguished immediately, revealing a completely undamaged blade.

Bran looked around for Meera and Arya, and found them standing around Nymeria, who Arya was looking over a little frantically, clearly to see if any of the blood matting her fur was her own. He urged his horse over to them, overwhelmed with relief that they both made it through, largely unscathed.

“Arya!” Bran called out, as he got closer. “Meera!”

“Bran!” they both called in response, and he could hear the relief in their voices.

“Are you all right?” Meera asked, rushing over to him and grabbing his hand firmly.

“Yes, I’m fine,” he replied quickly, looking between the two of them. “How are you two?”

As they both reassured him that they were both largely unharmed, Bran was aware of Beric Dondarrion rushing past them and meeting with the captain of the guard, speaking to each other urgently as they hurried towards the staircase that lead to the battlements.

Turning his attention to Meera, he reached out and pushed her hair away from the cut along the side of her head.

“You’re hurt,” he said with concern.

“I’m fine,” she said, pulling her head away from his hand.

Bran was about to say more, when he heard his name being called from above him. Looking up, he saw Beric looking over the parapet at him.

“Bran,” he called down, sounding urgent. “They are asking for you.”

Confused by this development, Bran shared a bemused look with both Meera and Arya, who both looked as confused and intrigued by this as he was. Anguy helped him to undo the straps holding him in the saddle, and then he and Thoros helped to lift him down.

The two of them carried him though the courtyard towards the stairs. Bran could hear the sounds of children crying and people talking consolingly to each other. He could sympathise with them, as in the space of a few hours their comfy surroundings in Winter Town had been taken away.

Bran couldn’t stop an overwhelming feeling of guilt from flooding through him.

_I should have done more,_ he thought angrily. _I knew that there was something wrong with the Highpoint siege, and I didn’t push hard enough for people to understand._

Reaching the top of the stairs and walking along the battlements, Bran saw the remnants of the battle here. Broken arrow shafts and blood splatters littered the floor, with several of the archers being treated for wounds. He saw that one of them had a large shard of wood, which looked like the broken shaft of an arrow, embedded in his eye, likely from an arrow breaking on the stone and ricocheting.

Reaching Beric, Bran could see a sense of deep tiredness on the man’s face. He turned to look at them as they arrived, before gesturing to down below them. Thoros and Anguy carried Bran to edge of the battlements, taking care to be able to pull him back sharply if they should try anything.

Bran saw that two white horses were walking slowly through the now corpse strewn courtyard of Winter Town. They had clearly not taken part in the battle at all, as their snow-white hides were unblemished by mud or blood. Once they got closer, one of them moved slightly ahead of the other and Bran could see that the rider was looking up to the battlements.

The man had long brown hair that reached his shoulders, and was riding under a Whitehill banner. Even though he couldn’t quite make out his face, there was something about him that was familiar to Bran.

“Brandon Stark!” the man called, his voice carrying all the way up to him. “I am Gryff Whitehill. As you can see your siege of our home was unsuccessful, thanks to our new allies.

“Surrender Winterfell to us, and you and your family will be unharmed. If you do not, every last man, woman and child within your walls will die a slow and painful death.”

Bran opened his mouth to reply, to tell him that they would not surrender to them, that Jon would soon return to scatter them away, when he was struck mute by a sudden realisation, the realisation of why the man seemed so familiar to him.

He was the man that he had seen Jon kill so brutally in his vision a few weeks ago.


End file.
